by David Bishop
His embarrassed words were cut short by a cry from one of the battered, broken buildings overlooking the courtyard. It was a man's voice, his scream a terrible sound in the bleak twilight. All five crewmen could hear him begging, though they did not understand his language. Two words were clearly audible, repeated over and over again: "Bojemoi!" and "Djavoli!"
Then there was silence.
"That must have been one of the snipers," Martin observed. "Someone must have got to him."
"Someone," Ralf said grimly. "Or something."
"What do you mean?" the young loader asked.
"Quiet," Helmut urged them. "Listen."
A gun was fired once, twice, three times. Another Russian screamed in the dusk, the word "Djavoli!" heard before his voice was also cut short. Moments later a body was thrown from one of the buildings down into village square, hitting the ground like a wet sack of sand.
"You can come out now, my German friends." a familiar voice called. It was Sergeant Gorgo, his tone gleeful and triumphant. "The Soviet snipers are dead."
Ralf moved to leave but Gunther grabbed his sleeve, holding him back. "It could be a trap. The Russians could have captured Gorgo, got him out of the Panzer and forced him to call for us."
"Perhaps. But those screams sounded all too real to me," Ralf replied. He drew his Luger and walked carefully out into the open, tensed to dive aside at the first hint of a sniper opening fire - but no shot came. He walked to the corpse in the courtyard, crouching to examine the broken body. It was a Russian soldier, his face a mask of terror, his neck snapped, broken and mutilated; somebody had hacked at the throat with a knife, slashed and stabbed repeatedly. Ralf turned the head aside to get a better look in what light remained. The corpse had also suffered another major injury.
There were two puncture marks in the neck, over the path of the carotid artery.
They looked deeper than the other wounds, as if the knife marks were inflicted earlier. Did Gorgo attack the Bolshevik with a knife, to hide the real killing wound? The thought sent a chill through Ralf's bones, as he pondered what could cause such puncture wounds in a neck.
He studied the body with fresh eyes, ignoring the mess of blood around the neck wounds. Aside from the crimson stains, the corpse was pale, almost blue - as if the sniper had been terribly anaemic. Or as if someone had recently drained it of all its blood, a quiet voice said at the back of Ralf's mind. He pushed the thought aside, not wanting to give it any credence for now. "It's safe," he called back to his crewmen. "This is definitely one of the Russians."
The others emerged into the courtyard, Willy and Helmut joining him beside the corpse while Gunther returned to the Panzer. Ralf sent Martin to check if Erfurth and his crew were still alive and give them the all clear. Once the youth had gone, Ralf pointed out to Willy and Helmut what he had noticed about the sniper's body. "I see it, too," the gunner confirmed. "Whatever killed him, it wasn't the knife wounds. They were an afterthought."
"Helmut?"
"Agreed. If Gorgo did this, the sooner he leaves us tomorrow, the better."
Ralf nodded. He swivelled round to see the Rumanian strolling across the courtyard towards them. The front of Gorgo's uniform was stained with blood, still wet and glistening. He had a satisfied smirk on his face, the most joyous expression since being let loose with the turret machine gun.
"The snipers put up quite a fight, but I got the better of them," he boasted.
"How did you get out of the Panzer without being seen?" Willy asked.
Gorgo shrugged. "I waited until nightfall, then slipped out in the dark."
"A neat trick," Helmut observed. "You should teach it to us."
The Rumanian tilted his head to one side. "Maybe I will one day. But tomorrow I must report back to my commander, Hauptmann Constanta. I have learned much about tactics and tank combat from you. They should prove most useful if the Rumanian Army ever decides to form a tank division of its own."
Gunther popped his head through one of the hatches in the Panzer. He was clutching Gorgo's coveted Feldflasche, unscrewing the lid. "Let's see if I can acquire a taste for your Transylvania beverage."
"No!" The Rumanian ran towards the tank, his hands outstretched. Gunther took a deep swallow from the drinking bottle and then spat the mouthful out into the air, spraying dark liquid from his lips. Gorgo snatched the flask from the driver's hands and began screwing the lid back on.
"Gah," Gunther spluttered, still choking on what he had swallowed from the Feldflasche. "That tasted like blood."
"I said you wouldn't enjoy it," Gorgo replied. He glanced at the others as they gathered around him and then smiled. The Rumanian removed the lid and drank gratefully from it. "Ah, that's better," he said, wiping a dribble of crimson from his lower lip. "Thirsty work, this war."
Erfurth had emerged cautiously from his own Panzer and was studying the walls impeding its progress. He shouted at his crew to get the tank unstuck and then strode back to talk with Gorgo. "I understand we have you to thank for eliminating the Bolshevik snipers?"
The two men walked away, leaving Ralf with his own crew.
Gunther spat out the last traces of Gorgo's drink. "I swear there's blood inside that flask, mixed with something else, possibly red wine. But it definitely contains blood."
Willy was watching the Rumanian carefully. "What manner of creature are we harbouring?" he wondered aloud.
"There is a name for such monsters," Ralf muttered. "But I shall not speak it during the hours of darkness. We talk about this with nobody else, understand? If we try to say what we've witnessed, others will think us mad." The crewmen nodded their agreement. "Gorgo leaves us tomorrow, so we must act as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened. The sooner he leaves our Panzer, the safer we'll be. Now, let's help Erfurth's men get their tank free, since the Feldwebel is too busy making a new friend to get his hands dirty."
Chapter Seven
JULY 15TH, 1941
A week after Klaus's encounter with Cãpitan aviator Stefan Toma, the Stuka pilot found himself flying alongside another member of the Rumanian trio. Toma was still grounded while waiting for a new aircraft, but his two compatriots had been active as fighter escorts for bombing raids by the Staffel's Ju 87s. Satzinger had even persuaded the reluctant Rumanians to begin making sorties during the hours of daylight.
The day's target was a cluster of defensive positions along the Soviet Union's pre-1939 western frontier. The Russian 5th, 6th, 12th and 25th armies had fallen back to these fortifications, after concentrated Stuka attacks had routed the Red Army's armoured formations. The retreat had enabled the Wehrmacht to push into the Dnestr valley. Soon, the battle of the Stalin Line would begin in earnest, but first the Bolshevik strongholds had to be softened up.
When Klaus and Heinrich emerged from an early morning briefing with Satzinger, they discovered their escort was already waiting inside his Hurricane. Locotenent aviator Cristu Droc waved to them from the cockpit, his outline visible through the heavily tinted glass, but he did not open the canopy.
"Your friend's been in there since before dawn, burning through his fuel," a member of the ground crew said as they passed. "None of those Rumanians is in danger of getting a tan."
"You'd almost think they were afraid of the sun," Heinrich joked.
"Maybe they are," Klaus muttered.
His gunner sighed. "Now, don't start all that again, I don't want to hear it. How Toma got out of that Hurricane is much a mystery to me as it is to you, but I don't think there's anything sinister about his explanation." The two men had spent plenty of time debating what they had witnessed, but Klaus still could not convince his gunner anything out of the ordinary had happened.
"Fine," the pilot snapped. "Let's get in the air, okay?"
The mission itself proved uneventful. The Luftwaffe's overwhelming air superiority had been a decisive factor driving back Russian forces, so enemy attacks against the Staffel's bombing runs were rare. The return trip was another matter
, with Droc calling from his Hurricane about handling difficulties. "The engine is misfiring," he said.
Klaus remembered what the ground crew had told him. "How long was your engine running before we took off?"
"I am not knowing," the Rumanian replied, struggling to understand the German's words.
"Look at your fuel gauge," Klaus urged. "How much do you have left?"
Both men in the Stuka heard Droc gasp and then hiss in what sounded like a curse in his native tongue. "Nothing," he finally replied. "It shows nothing."
"He must be flying on fumes," Heinrich said. "How far back to the field?"
Klaus studied the terrain for familiar landmarks. "At least another five minutes," he whispered. "Droc'll never make it, not at full throttle." The German pilot called his Rumanian counterpart. "You need to cut back your engine. Do you understand?"
"Cut back my engine."
"Yes, that will stretch out your fuel a little."
"I will try," Droc said.
"It won't be enough," Heinrich said quietly.
"I know, but if he can get close, maybe he can glide in," Klaus replied. His switched his focus back to the Hurricane, lowering his own speed to keep pace with the slowing fighter, but the Rumanian was throttling back too much, his plane decelerating too quickly. "Scheisse! He's going to stall."
No sooner had Klaus spoken the words than the Hurricane fell from the sky, its fuselage tipping to an awkward angle. "Droc! You've got to get the nose back up. You can still land your plane."
"I... am... trying!" the Rumanian said in a low voice, a mighty effort evident in his clenched words.
Klaus studied the landscape ahead. A long, grassy strip of flat land stretched away to the northwest. "Aim for that field on your right, but you must get the nose up. It's your only chance!"
The Rumanian shouted in what Klaus presumed was a curse, then the Hurricane suddenly folded in the air before plummeting to the ground. Both its main wings snapped off upon impact, while the fuselage bounced and skidded along the ground, ploughing through earth and grass.
Klaus called ahead to the airbase beyond the next hill, telling them what had happened. "We're going to take a closer look, see if Droc's still alive." The pilot glanced over his shoulder at Heinrich. "You ready?"
The gunner had been peering out the canopy at the long field where the Hurricane had crashed. There was just enough room for the Stuka to set down safely. "It'll be a bumpy landing, but I've had worse. Let's do it."
Within minutes the two flyers were running towards the Hurricane's remains. Toma might have survived his plane's demise, but there was no way Droc had got out alive. As Klaus neared the fuselage, he sniffed the air. Freshly ploughed earth mingled with leaking fuel to create a heady mixture. "Amazing the Hurricane didn't explode on impact."
Heinrich pointed at a tear along the fuselage when the plane had creased in the sky. "Tank ruptured in mid-air, so the fumes escaped." He caught sight of something else. "The canopy must have shattered at the same time."
The Hurricane's cockpit was a mess of torn metal and blackened glass fragments. Klaus pulled himself up to look inside, bracing for the sight of Droc's, broken corpse. "Poor bastard probably died in seconds. Never knew-" His voice stopped abruptly, abandoning his words.
Heinrich peered up at his pilot. "What is it, Klaus?"
"There's no body."
"What?"
"There's no body, nothing. It's as if he simply... vanished."
The gunner scratched his head. "We didn't see a parachute this time."
"We didn't see a parachute last time, but Toma got out."
"That was night. This is broad daylight," Heinrich replied. "Maybe Droc got sucked out of the cockpit when the fuselage folded in the air?"
Klaus studied the edges of the canopy's fractured metal framework. "No sign of blood or scraps of fabric. You'd expect him to leave some traces behind on his way out." The pilot stretched an arm inside the cockpit and pulled out a bundle of tightly wrapped cloth. "That settles things. His parachute is still inside." As Klaus removed it, a cloud of dust exploded from beneath the parachute, which blew into his face. He coughed and choked violently on the thin particles, letting himself slide back down to the grass beside Heinrich.
The gunner helped wipe the grey powder from Klaus's face. "What is this? Dust?" He dabbed the end of one finger against his tongue to taste the powder and then spat it out. "That's not dust. That's ashes! Human ashes!"
Klaus looked aghast at Heinrich. "How do you know?"
"My uncle worked in a crematorium, before the war. I know how human ashes smell." Once again, Heinrich spat onto the floor to cleanse his mouth of the flavour.
Klaus studied the Hurricane's fuselage again. "If those are human ashes, what are they doing inside the cockpit? I didn't find any trace of a fire. No burning, no scorch marks, except those ashes."
Heinrich shook his head. "None of this makes sense."
"Not unless..." Klaus's face grew grimmer as his thoughts reached a conclusion. "Not unless it was exposure to sunlight that turned Droc to ashes."
The gunner frowned. "What, you think he was allergic to the sun?"
"Not just him - his kind."
"His kind?"
Klaus nodded. "All three Rumanians had black tinted glass in the canopy of their planes when they arrived at the Staffel. They said it was to intimidate the Russians. Maybe it was more about protecting themselves. Have you ever seen any of them outside in the hours of daylight?"
"I must have done," Heinrich said, uncertainly clouding his words.
"I haven't," Klaus insisted. "Satzinger had to bully them into taking any missions in daylight, but even then they have made certain to be inside their planes before dawn, with the cockpit closed. Don't you understand, Heinrich? The Rumanians, they aren't like you or me. They aren't normal. They're something else, something sinister."
The gunner was still shaking his head, but less vigorously now. "Okay, so they're not fond of sunlight. That doesn't stop them being-"
"Human? How many humans do you know turn into ash when exposed to sunlight?" Klaus demanded. Heinrich stumbled away, back towards the Ju 87, so the pilot followed him. "When Toma's plane was hit, you know what I thought came out of the cockpit? A winged creature, like a bat. I saw the same thing attack the Rata pilot." Heinrich kept walking, so Klaus grabbed the gunner's arm and spun him round. "Listen to me. Toma and Droc, I think both of them were-"
"Don't say it," Heinrich pleaded, closing his eyes.
"Vampyrs," Klaus insisted. "The undead. Creatures of the night. You've heard the legends, you know the stories, same as I do. Beings that only come out in the darkness, beings that can turn themselves into other creatures, like bats. Beings that feed on human blood for sustenance. Beings that can be destroyed if exposed to direct sunlight." He pointed at the downed Hurricane. "Beings like the pilot who flew that plane. Droc was a vampyr and I'm betting Toma and the other Rumanian pilot are as well."
"Klaus, this is madness."
"Only a madman would ignore the evidence of his own eyes," Klaus replied. "I know what I've seen and I know what I believe. We have made allies with creatures of the devil himself. What does that make us?"
Heinrich rested a hand on Klaus's shoulder. "Let's say I agree with you-"
"Finally!"
"Let's say I agree with you. What do you suggest we do about it?"
"Tell Satzinger our suspicions, for a start."
"What proof do we have? Some ashes in a plane? Hardly enough evidence to convince me, let alone someone who wasn't here to see what happened. The major, he didn't want to hear what you had to say last time. Hell, neither did I, and I'm your gunner. Why should he believe us now?"
"Two voices are louder than one," Klaus insisted.
"Perhaps, but we need more support before we go to Satzinger with this," Heinrich insisted. "We have to talk with the rest of the Staffel, one on one. Find out if anybody else shares our suspicions about the Rumanians.
"
"They're not suspicions."
"Until we get some proof, that's all they are," the gunner replied. "I'll talk to the ground crew, see if they've noticed anything unusual about our guests. You approach some of the other pilots, see if they're on our side."
Klaus nodded, smiling at last. "Good. Let's get back to the landing field. The sooner we make a start, the better."
Heinrich nodded. "It's good to see you smiling again. You've been weighed down with all the troubles of the world lately."
"I was beginning to doubt my own eyes," Klaus admitted. "It feels good to have you on my side again."
"I was always on your side," Heinrich said. "I always will be."
Chapter Eight
JULY 21ST, 1941
Reaching the eastern banks of the Dnestr was more than another simple river crossing for the men in Hans's unit. For most units along the Ostfront, the invasion of enemy territory had begun within hours of Operation Barbarossa's launch on June 22. But the Landser of Army Group South would only set foot on true Russian soil once they had crossed the Dnestr. Hans's unit had reached the river valley four days earlier. Several men from the Mosel region said that it reminded them of home, thanks to the valley's steep slopes and thick woods. Stukas ruled the skies as close air support, bombarding Soviet bunkers across the river, while 88mm German artillery guns destroyed the Russian defensive positions. The constant barrage went on for so long Hans wondered if he would ever know silence again. When the guns finally stopped, it was almost unnerving. No retaliation came from the Soviet side, all resistance apparently crushed by the onslaught from the sky.
The infantry were streaming across the Dnestr. While some crossed in rubber rafts, most used bridges - either those left intact by the retreating Red Army, or new spans hastily put in place by German engineers. Hans was among the first company to reach the eastern side, the soldiers swiftly and deftly taking possession of key defensive positions nearby to secure the bridgehead. Witte warned them to watch for booby traps or Soviet snipers left behind to attack the German flanks, but the lessons learned in Reni had become second nature for these Landser.