Operation Vampyr

by David Bishop

Gunther approached Muller, offering to shake his hand. "I'm sorry about what happened, that you got chosen instead of me-"

  "I don't want your pity and I don't need your sorrow," Muller said with sudden vehemence. "Gorgo told me all about you, how you've been trying to poison the other crews against us. Your day will come, Gunther Stiefel. You can be certain of that."

  "Poison the other crews against you? What are you talking about, Muller? You're one of us," Ralf interjected.

  "Not anymore," the driver replied, grinning broadly so all the men could see his teeth. Twin fangs caught the moonlight as Muller licked his lips.

  Gorgo appeared from his tent. "What's going on out here? Muller, I told you to ready the T-34. We leave in twenty minutes." The others drifted away, muttering darkly about Muller.

  "Yes, sergeant," the driver responded, before striding away obediently into the night.

  Gorgo glared at Ralf and Gunther. "I don't know how you changed that fool Erfurth's mind, but challenges to our authority do not go unpunished."

  Ralf undid the top two buttons of his tunic, letting the silver cross slip out so it caught the moonlight. "We can and we will protect ourselves from your kind."

  The Rumanian sneered at Ralf, shaking his head dismissively. "You have no faith in that symbol, so it has no power in your hands."

  Gunther took out his own silver cross. "He may not believe anymore, but I do. What do you say to that, nightwalker?"

  Gorgo retreated slowly from the glinting crucifix, a hand held in front of his face to keep its light from his eyes. "Your time will come, Christian. He can't save you forever."

  Then Gorgo was gone, vanishing into the darkness, the sounding of flapping wings fading into the night.

  Ralf breathed out again, shivering as the air left his lungs. "Thank you," he whispered.

  The driver smiled and shrugged. "Now we're even." The two men walked back to their tank. "What happened to Muller - that could have been me."

  "It could still be any us unless we do something," Ralf replied. "Gorgo knows we're on to him. We must be twice as watchful from now on."

  Chapter Fifteen

  AUGUST 25TH, 1941

  The rehabilitation centre in Rumania was based at an abandoned private school on the outskirts of Sighisoara, housed in an old baronial castle. Klaus was grateful to reach the towering stone structure during the hours of daylight. It stood on the brow of a hill that offered magnificent views of the black, brooding Transylvanian mountains. Klaus shuddered involuntarily as he was wheeled inside. There was something malevolent about those peaks, almost as if they were alive.

  Inside it was cold and draughty, with high ceilings and plaster crumbling from the walls. The acrid stench of disinfectant filled the rooms, mingling with the stale scent of dust and mouse droppings. The building had seen better days, as had most of the staff. Wehrmacht medics were responsible for overseeing the patients. Only those with a realistic chance of full recovery came to the centre, while more serious injuries were invalided back to Germany. Klaus soon noticed menial jobs such as cooking and cleaning were done by a handful of elderly Rumanians. He tried asking them about the local area, but they refused to answer or did not understand his questions. He mentioned the name Constanta to a wrinkled washerwoman. The colour drained from her face and she kissed a crucifix, which was hanging round her neck.

  Klaus's curiosity soon came to the attention of the centre's director, Doctor Sheybal. The thin-faced, pallid physician paid an early morning visit to the pilot's bedside, waking him from a dreamless sleep. "I understand you've been asking my staff a lot of questions. May I ask why?"

  The pilot shrugged, wincing at the pain that he still felt in his chest. His wounds were healing well, but that didn't stop them hurting. "Those mountains outside intrigue me. Where I come from in, it Germany is mostly flatland, we don't have anything to rival such peaks."

  Sheybal pondered his reply, one hand nervously smoothing a few greasy strands of hair across his balding pate. "Perhaps that is true, but I'm told you've also been asking about a local dignitary, Lord Constanta."

  Klaus fought to keep the panic from his face. "One of my brothers met Hauptmann Constanta on the Ostfront and they talked about Sighisoara. When Hans heard I was coming here, he asked me to pass his regards to the Hauptmann's family."

  "Did he?" The doctor pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Well then, you are in luck, Oberleutnant Vollmer. Lord Constanta is passing through Sighisoara today. In view of your interest, I shall make a request for him to visit us. I'm sure he will want to meet you in person."

  "I'll look forward to that," Klaus replied, forcing a smile until Sheybal left the private room. His mind raced, trying to plot some way out of this situation before realising the encounter was unavoidable. Klaus closed a trembling hand around the silver cross on his bedside table.

  I'll simply have to hope this does its job, he decided, gripping the crucifix tightly between his fingers.

  It was dark when Klaus stirred from sleep, the last light of the day tinting clouds red. The pilot watched night claiming the sky for its own though the tall, lead-lined windows of his room. Something was nagging at the back of his mind, trying to force its way past the drowsiness clouding his thoughts. Then a voice in the darkness jolted him awake.

  "I understand you've been asking for me."

  A lone figure appeared from the shadows. A high-collared cloak of black surrounded the man like a shroud, casting darkness across his clothes. Black leather gloves encased his hands, creaking as the newcomer clenched and unclenched his fists. A peaked cap above the cold, patrician features bore the familiar emblem of the vampyrs. There could be little doubt that this was Hauptmann Constanta. Cold, numbing fear chilled Klaus as he stared into the stranger's face, unable to tear his gaze from those hooded eyes. The pilot felt himself drawn deeper into those black pupils, as if they were somehow sucking the spirit from his body.

  Klaus forced himself to blink, breaking contact between them. He looked at his open hands, but the cross was gone. A hurried glance confirmed it had not fallen from his grasp while he slept, or slipped to the floor. It must have been taken while he dozed, his sole form of protection deliberately removed. He realised that he was alone, with no means of fighting off this monster. Constanta was glaring at him, so Klaus repeated what he had said to Doctor Sheybal about passing on Hans's regards.

  "Is that so?" the Hauptmann replied. "Private Vollmer is your brother? How interesting. I wonder, do you have another sibling fighting in this war?"

  Klaus tried to lie, but was unable to with Constanta's gaze boring into his own. The Rumanian's eyes seemed to scour his soul.

  "Yes," Klaus said. "Ralf, my elder brother. He's a Panzer commander."

  Constanta smiled. "I thought as much. One of my underlings reported an icident involving an Obergefreiter Vollmer. The same surname, recurring so many times... I knew it had to be more than mere coincidence." He stepped closer to Klaus, gently resting a gloved hand on the edge of the bed. "A trio of brothers, all stationed along the Ostfront, all causing trouble for or asking questions about me and my men. One might almost think the three of you were planning to pit yourselves against us."

  "Why would we?" Klaus asked, struggling to keep the fear from his voice. "We're all on the same side in this war, we share a common enemy."

  "Precisely." Constanta smiled wide enough for Klaus to see the tips of his fangs. "We are allies, we should act that way."

  "Then my brothers and I have no reason to fear you or your men."

  "Fear us? Why should you fear us?"

  "One of your pilots tried to kill me," Klaus said, his anger over the death of Heinrich finding an outlet at last. "He crashed his plane into mine, murdering my gunner in the process."

  "The official inquiry found the collision was an unfortunate accident."

  "It was no accident," Klaus snapped.

  Constanta's hands flashed forward and grabbed Klaus by the neck, gloved fingers closing over his wi
ndpipe. The Rumanian leaned closer, fixing the pilot's gaze. "You will listen to me, Oberleutnant Vollmer. I am a patient man. When you have lived as long as I in the service of my sire, you learn these passing conflicts are but a moment in the vast span of history. Millions will die in this war, as millions have died in wars past and wars yet to begin. Your life and the lives of your brothers are less than nothing in a conflict of this scale. Whether or not you see the end of this war is in your hands. Keep silent about what you think you know and you might survive. Continue spreading sedition about my men and you will leave me with no alternative. Do I make myself clear?"

  Klaus nodded hurriedly, anything to get Constanta's rancid breath away, to escape the curving, crimson-tipped fangs that hovered within biting distance.

  The Hauptmann straightened up and smiled, apparently satisfied. "Very well, then. Let's us say nothing more about it."

  He clapped his hands and Doctor Sheybal scurried into the room like an obedient dog.

  "Ah, my dear Vladek. I want you to ensure young Vollmer receives the finest possible care. The sooner he is back in the air with a new Stuka, fighting the good fight for Germany and Rumania, the better for all of us. Don't you agree, Oberleutnant?"

  "Yes," Klaus whispered.

  The Hauptmann wrapped an arm round Sheybal's shoulders and led the physician out of the room. "Now, doctor, I need to talk with you about medical supplies for the prisoner of war camp on the other side of Sighisoara. I was visiting there earlier today and saw a severe shortage of vital equipment. We don't wish the Russian prisoners to die needlessly, do we?"

  Once they were gone, Klaus let his head sink back into the pillow. He became aware that his bedclothes were soaked with sweat. He began shivering uncontrollably, his hands shaking like those of an old man. Why hadn't the vampyr leader killed him when given the chance? It would look suspicious if he had died while recovering at a rehabilitation centre, but these things happened. Eventually, he abandoned trying to understand the Hauptmann's actions. Klaus decided he could not think his way into the Hauptmann's head, nor did he want to. Besides, something else was bothering him. Why would Constanta care about the welfare of Russian POWs if the Rumanians hated the Soviets as much as they claimed? Again, he could find no obvious answer to that question. But the pilot did come to a decision: he would pay a visit to that camp and see those prisoners with his own eyes.

  Chapter Sixteen

  SEPTEMBER 1ST, 1941

  Four weeks after his brief encounter with the Führer, Hans realised he was one of only three survivors in his unit from all those who crossed the Prut in June. Nearly a dozen had died in that first day of fighting to claim Reni. More had fallen during intermittent skirmishes with the Soviets since, but the midnight ambush had cost the most lives. Both the Held twins fell that dark, bloody night, along with many others Hans thought of as friends. Since returning from the medal ceremony he had watched the casualties mount up, fresh-faced youths brought in from Germany to fill the gaps cut down as quickly as their predecessors. The losses had seen him promoted to Gefreiter, as much by default as on merit. Hans dreamt of such promotions when he first put on his private's uniform, but the reality had made little difference to him.

  Only Witte, Kral and himself remained from the Originals, as Franz liked to call them. Seventy-three days of fighting and only three survivors. It was a chilling statistic, but one Hans could not help dwelling upon. The threat of the vampyrs was always at the back of his mind, a troubling shadow on his subconscious, but he had only ever seen Constanta's men killing the enemy.

  In this bitter war of attrition, Hans thought, perhaps the presence of such ruthless warriors was as much a blessing as it was a curse. Then he remembered the sudden change in Brunetti, the attempt on Klaus's life, the things Ralf had told them about the vampyrs. How could you balance one enemy against another? He was a simple soldier. He would do his duty for the Fatherland and let history be the judge of his actions. It was the only decision he could make without driving himself mad.

  Hans's unit had been progressing slowly since the launch of Operation Barbarossa. Isolated from much of Army Group South, they had been busy keeping their Axis allies out of trouble and providing flank cover for the 17th Army. Recent battles had captured a bridgehead across the Dnepr River at Berislav. It didn't take a genius to realise the Crimea would be their next objective. Happily for Hans, his encounters with the vampyrs had been few, reassuring him their numbers remained small among the millions of men fighting along the vastness of the Ostfront. The majority of the Rumanian soldiers were like him - ordinary men trying to get through the war alive. But Hans's belief was shaken when his unit was ordered to help expand the Berislav bridgehead.

  The target was to secure a wide road through the settlement on the Russian side of the river. Constant aerial bombardment from Stukas and German guns had devastated buildings on either side of the road, but had also turned the scarred structures into perfect hiding places for snipers.

  Witte was grim-faced when he briefed the men in the early afternoon sun. "We are bait for a trap, charged with advancing down the road, attracting hostile fire. A strike force will use us as a way to pinpoint the enemy locations and wipe them out, making the road safe."

  "What about us?" Franz asked nervously. "Who keeps us safe?"

  "We have to keep each other safe," the sergeant replied.

  When the men began muttering in protest, Witte snapped at them for silence. "Perhaps you have forgotten pledging your life to the Fatherland?" He ordered them to look at the square alloy buckle on their waist belts, embossed with a Wehrmacht eagle set inside a wreath of oak leaves. Surmounting the wreath were three words, "Gott mit uns".

  "God is with us," the sergeant reminded them. "Now, get yourselves ready. We move out within the hour. Dismissed!"

  Hans went from man to man, checking that each had two clips of ammunition in their pouches, along with a full Feldflasche and several stick grenades. Franz started at the other end of the unit, reminding the conscripts the safest ways to advance and how to provide cover for their comrades. The two men met when Hans reached Private Ludwig Blomberg, a nervous youngster with spectacles. His father had been a hero in the First World War.

  "I begged him for some way out of this," Ludwig told Franz. "He said if I didn't do my duty, he would have me shot for being a coward."

  Hans and Franz exchanged a look of despair. It was soldiers like Blomberg who got good men killed.

  "You stay beside me," Hans said, trying to reassure the raw recruit. "Together we'll prove your father wrong, okay?"

  Blomberg nodded weakly, mucus hanging from one nostril. Hans got the boy to wipe his nose and collect his equipments while Franz went on to the next man.

  Less than two hours later Blomberg was dead. His head had exploded like a rotten grapefruit, bone and brain spraying the air. He and Hans had been at the rear of the infantry unit as it advanced along the road. An eerie silence enveloped the men. The snipers only opened fire when every German soldier was completely exposed. Then the slaughter began, a volley of shots that seemed to come from every direction. Hans sprinted to one side, dragging Blomberg along as he sought the shelter of a doorway. Both men had nearly reached sanctuary when a sniper fired.

  A wet aerosol hit Hans as Blomberg's terrified whimpering was stopped by a dull, moist thud. Hans kept on running, dragging the body behind him, but he knew it was too late for poor Ludwig. When he glanced at the young soldier, little remained of Blomberg's face. The fool must have taken off his helmet, Hans realised. He searched the road where they had stood. The dead youth's helmet was still there, but the chinstrap was broken.

  "Guess I did you a disservice," he said. "Not that you care much now."

  Hans snapped off the bottom half of Blomberg's identity disc. He read the dead man's date of birth and laughed. Blomberg had been five days older than him. After three months on the Ostfront, Hans felt as if he'd been fighting the war for three years. Being among so much deva
station aged a person in ways that nothing else could.

  Across the road, he could see Witte make his way back along the opposite side, sniper bullets spitting up cement chips from the broken pavement. The sergeant made a hand gesture and asked if Hans was wounded. He shook his head, then pointed to the windows above, indicating there was a sniper overhead. The sergeant nodded, then disappeared into an open doorway.

  Hans was removing spare ammunition from Blomberg's body, when he noticed movement in the building opposite. Witte was creeping past a window on the first floor, but there was another person two levels further up. Hans realised he couldn't call out, as it would draw attention from the sniper. But he couldn't get a clear shot either because he needed more elevation. He leaned against the door behind him and felt it move. A twist of the handle and the door swung inwards. Plaster dust covered everything, while shattered glass cracked beneath Hans's jackboots.

  Another sound was audible.

  He stopped and listened. Somewhere above him was another sniper, waiting for a clear target. Hans crept to the nearby staircase and quickly removed his boots. They did a good job of protecting his feet, but made too much noise. Hans crept up the stairs, his MP 40 ready to fire.

  The first floor was empty so Hans ascended another level, aware of every movement in the shattered building. A German shell must have exploded in the next home, as the adjoining walls had collapsed sideways into this house. Fragments of mortar were strewn across the wooden floor like pebbles. Hans tiptoed to a window and looked across the road. He could see Witte and the sniper grappling, both men clawing desperately at the other's face.

  A shot rang out from directly above Hans, startling him.

  Abandoning all attempts at stealth, he ran for the staircase and sprinted upwards, opening fire before he reached the top step. The sniper spun round, caught in the act of reloading. Hans emptied all thirty-two rounds from his machine pistol into the Russian soldier, who fell sideways against the window frame, then crumpled face-first to the floor, blood covering the floor and walls.