Operation Vampyr

by David Bishop

  "The sergeant told us to hold this position," Hans said weakly from where he had fallen.

  "Witte is probably dead," Ulrich snarled. "You saw where those murdering bastards came from. They slaughtered the sergeant and the others, and then they tried to do the same to us. But we'll show them, won't we?"

  Most of the others nodded their approval. Only Kral stood aside from the mob mentality. "Hans is right. We should stay here and tend to our wounded. We don't know Witte or the others are dead."

  Ulrich pushed past Franz, striding off in the same direction the enemy had fled. "Stay here if you want. I've got Russians to kill." The others went after him, leaving Franz and Hans behind.

  A few minutes later gunfire sounded in the distance, staccato rhythms of death peppering the air. Then nothing. An eerie silence covered the copse like a shroud, not even a gust of wind to shuffle the leaves on the trees.

  Hans bandaged his leg wound, the Russian bullet having only creased the side of his thigh. Franz kept guard beside Hans in the shadows, having gathered all the abandoned weapons and ammunition around them. "Better safe than sorry," he explained.

  Hans stayed on the ground, resting his back against the nearest tree trunk. He found it hard to believe Witte was dead, but the sergeant had never been missing in action this long before. Hans had come to depend on Witte for guidance, using him as a mentor. When faced with a problem he couldn't resolve, Hans had taken to pondering what the sergeant would do in the same situation. Using that same logic, his choice had been clear when Ulrich wanted to pursue the Russians. Hans could almost hear Witte's voice inside his head, gravelly tones passing judgement on the dilemma.

  "Never pursue a hostile force over unknown territory, especially at night. Fight the enemy with your head, not your heart."

  Before Hans could ponder what the sergeant would suggest, he felt Franz's hand closing round his arm. "Someone's coming," the little soldier said.

  "From where?"

  Franz made two gestures: one in the direction Ulrich and the others had gone, the second down the gully from where the Russians had come. Hans pulled his MP 40 closer, gently sliding the thirty-two round magazine out of the machine pistol to check it was fully loaded. He then slotted the metal clip back into position and flicked the safety catch off.

  "Aim low. Put your man down," Hans whispered to himself, repeating the words in his mind again and again.

  Franz breathed in deeply as the first group of Russian riflemen appeared, cockily sauntering back from where Ulrich's group had ventured. There were half a dozen of them; several more than had fled the field before. It must have been a trap, Hans realised, a feint to lure us into chasing them. Then a second group of Soviet soldiers emerged from the gully, ten in all. The Russians were talking loudly and warmly, laughing and making extravagant hand gestures to describe their night's work.

  How long before they remember to check the copse for survivors, Hans wondered. How long before Franz and I die here?

  A noise got the enemy troops' attention, a sound Hans had not heard since visiting a zoo as a child. It was the growling of wild animals, low and savage, the feral noise of a hunter closing on its prey. Hans and Franz watched in amazement as five wolves emerged from the shadows, creeping out from among the scrub and long grass to surround the Soviet riflemen. Another wolf paused as it passed Hans, glaring into his eyes hungrily, lips curling back to reveal bloodstained teeth. There was something chillingly familiar about the animal's expression, as if it recognised him.

  It then joined the others, all six of them, stalking the Russians in a broad circle, keeping the men clustered tightly together. One of the soldiers fired at the lead wolf, but it danced around his aim, moving with a speed that cheated the eye. Nothing can move that fast, Hans thought, certainly not any animal I know. The only thing I've ever seen move so quick was those creatures at Reni.

  "What do we do?" Franz whispered, terror quaking his voice.

  "Nothing," Hans replied, licking his dry lips. "We do nothing." He glanced up at the sky, where a thick bank of dark clouds was about to cover the moon. Then darkness fell on the copse and the Russians started screaming.

  When the moonlight returned, the wolves were gone. Where the Russians had once stood was a pile of dead bodies, arms thrown across faces, eyes glinting lifelessly wetness soaking the front of their uniforms. Only one man was standing and he wore a long, dark cloak with a high collar and a peaked cap. He smiled with satisfaction at the sixteen dead Soviets and then turned to face Hans and Franz. It was Constanta.

  Kral had fainted; the sound of men screaming and animals feasting was too much for the private to bear. But Hans watched it all, peering into the darkness to catch glimpses of the wolves at work. The animals' shapes blurred in the blackness, seeming to mutate into shadowy figures that flung themselves upon the Russians. So fast was the attack that the Bolsheviks did not have time to fire another shot, their protests of "Nyet! Nyet!" dying with them in the dark.

  Constanta strolled towards Hans, the Rumanian officer wiping smears of moisture from the ends of his moustache with a gloved finger. "Private... Vollmer, isn't it? I thought I recognised you."

  Hans felt a shudder of terror soar through his spine. The monster recognises me, it knows my name, he thought. What else does it know about me?

  "You needn't be afraid of me or my men," Constanta said, almost as if in reply to Hans's thoughts. "We received word of a Russian counter-attack planned for this evening and made our way to this area. You can count yourself lucky we intervened before the enemy realised you were so close at hand. I would not like to think what would have happened otherwise." The Rumanian smiled, letting Hans see the points of his fangs glisten in the moonlight. "I wouldn't be surprised if your commanders give you a medal for single-handedly wiping out a Russian patrol like that, particularly when you've already been wounded."

  "But I didn't-" Hans protested.

  Constanta silenced him with a gesture. Hans wanted to cry out, to shake Franz back to his senses, but something was crushing his will, preventing him from moveing. "Hush, my boy, hush. Enjoy your moment of glory when it comes, for they are few and far between in the lives of mere mortals. How is your wound, by the way?" The Hauptmann crouched beside Hans and pressed a gloved finger into the bloody bandage, pushing into the moist fabric.

  The German private wanted to scream in agony but his voice and lips were frozen, unable to respond. Constanta removed his finger from the wound and lovingly licked the tip, savouring every last drop of blood. "Hmm, delicious. A shame my men and I are not allowed to feast on such sweet succour. These Russians are a foul-tasting foe, their blood tastes of vodka and potatoes." The Rumanian stood up again, wrapping his cloak around himself. "Remember what I have said, Vollmer. You will take credit for killing the Russians, whether you like it or not. Circumstances require my men and I to keep a low profile in such matters. Besides, it is good for German morale to make heroes of its men."

  With that Constanta was gone, fading away into the darkness, the slightest wisp of mist remaining where he had stood.

  Franz shuddered on the ground beside Hans, slowly lifting his head to see what had happened. "Where are the Russians?"

  "All dead," Hans replied numbly.

  "And the wolves?" Franz glanced about them anxiously, fear in his eyes.

  "What wolves?"

  "Those wolves before... You saw them, didn't you? I can't remember what happened after that. I must have passed out. Come to think of it, I'm not sure about anything anymore."

  "That's probably just as well," Hans decided. He could hear several people running towards them from the gully. "Over here. We're over here."

  "Are you insane? How do you know they're on our side?" Franz demanded.

  "I doubt there's a Russian alive within ten kilometres." Besides, Hans thought, having someone on your side doesn't make them any less deadly.

  Witte was the first to emerge from the gully, followed by seven more members of the inf
antry unit. The pile of Russian corpses surprised the sergeant, but he was even more astonished to find that Hans and Franz were still alive. "We've been pinned down by the Russians for hours," he explained. "It's taken us this long to work our way back to your position." Witte noted Siegfried's body beneath one of the trees. "Where are the others?"

  Hans explained most of what had happened, but glossed over the final confrontation with the Russians. "Hauptmann Constanta and his Rumanian Mountain Troops intervened, though he seems to think we should get the credit."

  "Does he?" the sergeant said thoughtfully. "He shuns the limelight as much as he shuns the daylight." Witte noticed the puzzled look on Franz's face. "Don't worry, Private Kral, I was merely thinking out loud. It's time we got you and Vollmer back behind our lines, yes? You've both served with distinction tonight."

  It was almost midnight when Hans returned to his tent. He was looking forward to falling asleep but Brunetti was waiting for him inside.

  The war correspondent shook Hans's hand as if the two had never been introduced. "My name is Brunetti, Giovanni Brunetti. I'm an Italian reporter covering the Ostfront."

  "I know," Hans said, baffled at this opening gambit. "We've met before."

  "Have we? Well, I meet so many troops, all the faces begin to blend together after a while," Brunetti said, his sad eyes twinkling. "I hope you won't be offended if I don't recall you straight away."

  "No, of course not."

  "Good. Well, I'm told you've had a busy night. According to my source you and another private wiped out an entire Russian patrol by yourselves."

  "How did you hear that?" Hans asked.

  The war correspondent tapped the side of his prominent nose. "A good journalist never reveals their sources, you know. So please, tell me what happened."

  Hans did his best to answer the question, but Brunetti had to prompt him through the details - how the devious Bolsheviks had lured the rest of Hans's unit into a trap, how Hans had been wounded in the fighting, how Hans and Kral had managed against all odds to overcome the Russian patrol.

  When the questions were concluded, the private complemented Brunetti on his grasp of events. "It's almost as if you were there in person."

  The Italian smiled. "I pride myself on trying to see these battles through the eyes of those who took part. It gives the necessary verisimilitude." Brunetti pocketed his notebook and pencil. "Well, I'll be filing my copy tomorrow. I wouldn't be surprised if you get a medal for this incident." He shook hands with Hans, but the German refused to let go of Brunetti.

  "Giovanni, I have to tell you something, about what happened tonight."

  "Yes?"

  "I didn't kill all those Russians. It was Constanta, him and his men. They slaughtered the Reds, tore them apart like wild animals. Everything you said about the Rumanians, everything you told me - it was true, all of it!"

  Brunetti looked at Hans as if the German had lost his mind. "You're not making much sense, private. I'm certain we've never met before this evening. As for this nonsense about Hauptmann Constanta, you must be mistaken. It was him who supplied me with the information about your heroics."

  "No, don't you understand?" Hans protested. "It was-"

  "I think that's enough excitement for one evening," another voice cut in. Constanta stepped inside Hans's tent. "Brunetti, perhaps you'd like to wait for me outside?"

  "Of course, Hauptmann," the Italian replied. He nodded to Hans and stepped out of the tent, leaving the two men together. Constanta advanced on Hans, backing him against one of the tent poles.

  "I'm growing rather fond of my war correspondent," the Rumanian said, smiling wolfishly. "He was a troublesome creature, but since I had a little talk with him he has been a model of propriety. I wouldn't wish to see him come to any harm, would you?"

  "No," Hans agreed, shakily.

  "Very well then," Constanta continued. "You will accept whatever praise or commendation offered to you for tonight's events. You will do so cheerfully and without hesitation or reservation, and you will forget anything unusual you witnessed this evening. Do I make myself clear?"

  Hans could feel the Rumanian's eyes boring into his own, Constanta's will pressing itself down upon his. "Yes, Hauptmann."

  "That's better. I would hate to have to send Brunetti out into no-man's-land, alone and unarmed, to face the guns of our Bolshevik enemies. I doubt he would last a few seconds against the Red Army. But that is what will happen, unless you obey my will. Now, let's say no more about this incident, shall we? You had better get some rest, so that wounded leg of yours can heal. I fear we both still have a long war ahead of us. Goodnight, Private Vollmer. I trust we shall not have cause to meet again any time soon." Constanta turned on his heel and departed, like a shadow passing across the moon.

  Hans sank to his knees, shivering uncontrollably.

  Chapter Eleven

  AUGUST 2ND, 1941

  Klaus woke up and screamed twice. The first was one of terror. A single image was fixed in his mind's eye: a grinning, evil face looming towards him, its thin, cruel lips pulling back to reveal a mouthful of fangs. A wet, lascivious tongue slid out like a black serpent to lick them and then returned to its home in the darkness. The massive jaws got closer and closer, larger and larger, as if it was about to swallow Klaus whole, making him disappear forever into oblivion.

  The second scream was born of pain; every muscle and sinew in the pilot's body cried out in agony as he jerked awake. Klaus sank back into the makeshift bed, aware of its coarse blankets and creaking metal framework. The stench of rotting flesh and misery filled his nostrils. Battling against the blackness that wanted to consume him, Klaus let his eyes slide from side to side, taking in his bleak surroundings. What he saw did little to comfort him.

  Judging by the canvas walls and ceiling, it was a field hospital of sorts, with portable cots standing in lines. Each bed held a wounded man, most swathed in bloody bandages, their limbs or eyes missing, skin burnt or charred. A few moaned constantly in pain, others were mercifully unconscious, some stared sightlessly at nothing. Medics moved from cot to cot, checking pulses and temperatures, administering what care they could. An artillery shell exploded nearby, showering the outside of the field hospital with earth, but not one medic flinched. A few of the wounded cowered, while those asleep stirred, mumbling curses or prayers under their breath.

  In the cot opposite Klaus, three orderlies were holding down a patient, while a surgeon was taking a hacksaw to the wounded man's leg. The soldier was howling in agony, hurling as many swearwords as he could at the physician.

  "God in heaven, somebody shut him up!" the surgeon snarled, redoubling his efforts to saw through the bone as blood poured on to the floor.

  One of the orderlies retrieved the wooden shaft of a stick grenade from the ground and shoved it between the patient's teeth. Biting into the wood, his eyes bulging in pain, the soldier could only convey his agonised sobbing and guttural moans to torment the other wounded.

  Klaus decided he was in hell, but he had no idea how he had got there.

  The medics were too busy dealing with a dying patient to notice him. When he had expired, the medics snapped off the identity disc and pulled a sheet over the corpse's face.

  Once these brief formalities were concluded, the medic wearily approached Klaus. "Yes?"

  "Where am I?"

  "A field hospital, between Bratslav and Uman."

  The names meant little to Klaus. "How did I get here? What happened?"

  The orderly sighed and reached for Klaus's chart. "You were brought in yesterday, unconscious and unresponsive. Few visible injuries, except your leg and chest."

  "My leg?" A creeping horror engulfed the pilot, daring him to look down and see if his body was still intact. "Oh god, you didn't-"

  "Amputate? No. You dislocated your left knee. The bones remained out of place for several hours, causing damage to the muscles and tendons. We'll have to wait for the swelling to go down before the doctors can as
sess how much damage has been done. You also took a piece of shrapnel in the chest, close to the heart. The surgeons believe they got most of it out, but you'll need a second operation to make sure. Now, if you'll excuse me."

  The orderly was already turning to leave, but Klaus grabbed his wrist, forcing the sad-faced medic to stay put. "My gunner, Heinrich. What happened to Heinrich?"

  The orderly shrugged. "Have a look around. Maybe you'll see him." He prised his arm free from Klaus and walked away.

  The pilot quickly scanned the faces of all the nearby patients he could, but Heinrich was not among them. Klaus let his head drop back to the bed, straining to recall how he came to be there. The last thing he could recall was receiving orders to give aerial support for the ground troops encircling the Russian forces near Uman. Beyond that was nothing, only darkness and the image of the fanged jaws closing around him. Already he could feel exhaustion, claiming him for its own. Then the darkness enveloped him again.

  Klaus opened his eyes and found himself outside Major Satzinger's tent at the airbase, in the cool air of dusk. Cãpitan aviator Stefan Toma was striding towards him, the Rumanian pilot's face livid with anger. "Why have you been spreading these lies about me and my men, Vollmer?"

  "What lies? I don't know what you're talking about," Klaus protested.

  "Other members of your Staffel are not so devious as you. They told me how you and your gunner had come to them, asking questions about us, creating rumours, suggesting we have some ulterior motive for helping you fight the Bolsheviks."

  "Heinrich?" Klaus glanced about, trying to catch sight of the gunner, his mind filled with unanswered questions. Was this memory or a hallucination? "Please, I need to find Heinrich."

  "Forget about him, Vollmer," Toma snarled. "You and I have our own matters to discuss. You will stop these lies."

  "What lies?"