Operation Vampyr

by David Bishop

  "That's for Blomberg, you bastard," Hans snarled as he approached the dead sniper.

  He kicked the body so it rolled over, a heavy cap that had hidden the Russian's features falling aside. The sniper was a woman. Her pale face was remarkably beautiful, despite the blood oozing from her mouth and nostrils.

  "Oh, God," Hans whispered, the dead woman's blood pooling round his feet.

  "Vollmer," a voice said. "Vollmer. Are you all right?" Hans recognised the voice. Witte was waving from the far side of the road, one hand nursing a shoulder wound.

  "What happened?" Hans called back.

  "Your sniper's shot went through my arm and hit this one in the throat. What about you?"

  "This one's dead," Hans replied emotionlessly.

  The sergeant gave the thumbs up signal. "There's at least four more along the road. They've got Kral and several others pinned down."

  Hans nodded his understanding and went back downstairs to retrieve his jackboots. He didn't look back at the dead sniper, didn't want to see her lifeless eyes staring at him accusingly. He told himself that he did not kill a woman; he killed one of his enemies. But he couldn't help wondering if the war was turning all of them into monsters of one kind or another.

  Franz was pinned down with half a dozen men in a doorway, caught in the crossfire of three snipers secreted across the road. Half the conscripts died in the first twenty minutes, picked off by precise Soviet fire. The rest learned the lesson and kept out of harm's way. Franz had seen so many men die he no longer bothered remembering the names of newcomers, unless they survived past the first week. Of the three who were crouched around him, Franz recognised only one - a tall, gangling youth called Raus. He had arrived nine days earlier and kept his head when others panicked. The other two were unknown to Franz. He nudged a pale-faced private with black hair and a broken nose on his right. "Hey, what's your name?"

  "Jodl. Kurt Jodl."

  Franz nodded towards the other soldier, a slightly overweight youth with strawberry blonde hair and crimson cheeks. "And him?"

  "That's Zeitzler," Jodl replied. "I don't know his first name. Sorry."

  "Hey, Zeitzler," Franz said. "What's your first name?"

  But the newcomer was dead before he could answer. A single bullet neatly punctured his chest. He fell to the ground as a sucking sound escaped from the gaping hole. The others flinched. Jodl clutched at the front of his trousers. A dark, wet stain spread from the crotch, the smell of warm piss filling the air.

  "Scheisse," the private muttered, his face flushing red with shame.

  "Let's hope not," Franz replied, returning fire at the sniper. "Otherwise that smell is only going to get worse." He glanced up and down the road that had cost the lives of half the unit in a single afternoon. "Where the hell are our reinforcements?"

  Hans had joined Witte on the opposite side of the road, then the sergeant led him towards where Franz and the others were pinned down. The two men had to stop twice along the way to deal with Soviet snipers. As soon as they had flushed one out, another appeared.

  Like Kral, Witte wondered aloud about the support they had been promised. "We're getting slaughtered out here and there's no sign of them," he said angrily.

  When the two men stopped to reload, a grim thought occurring to Hans. "Did anyone specify where our support was coming from, what company or battalion?"

  Witte shook his head. "Some new unit, trained in stealth and covert tactics, that's all I was told." His eyes widened. "You don't think... We haven't seen Constanta or his men for weeks."

  "That's what worries me," Hans agreed, slapping a fresh magazine into his MP 40.

  A lone voice called out from the German-held end of the road. A figure was approaching Hans and Witte, waving to them cheerfully while walking down the centre of the street. "Hello, soldiers. How goes the war for you?"

  Hans squinted to see the madman's face in the gloaming. "Is that Brunetti?"

  The Italian waved again, ever closer to the firing range of the snipers. He seemed oblivious of the danger he was walking into. "Have either of you see Hauptmann Constanta? We've arranged to meet here, but I can't seem to find him anywhere."

  "Brunetti, get out of the road," Witte said. "This area is swarming with Soviet snipers."

  But the Italian kept coming, smiling and waving. It was as if he was in a trance, like somebody sleepwalking to their own death.

  "Giovanni, stop," Hans said. "Don't come closer!"

  Still Brunetti continued walking. He raised a hand to his mouth and shouted into the air. "Hauptmann Constanta, are you here? Hauptmann Constanta, can you hear me?"

  One of the snipers blew a hole in Brunetti's chest. The Italian stumbled and fell, blood leaking from his wound. Despite the fact he was dying, the war correspondent began crawling on all fours. "Please, Hauptmann. You said you'd be here. You told me I had to come this way."

  Hans looked away as another shot rang out. Brunetti did not speak again, but his body twitched for several minutes afterwards.

  Raus died next. The sound of Brunetti's bizarre demise tricked him into leaning forwards, to see who was approaching. A fusillade of rounds set Raus dancing like a rag doll. It was a relief for Franz when the conscript died. He collapsed into an untidy heap, but the casualty proved too much for Jodl.

  The black-haired soldier was weeping uncontrollably, tears streaming down his face. "I don't want to die," he whispered weakly. "Please don't let me die here."

  "Shut up a minute and let me think," Franz snarled, losing patience with the boy. He already knew the door behind him would not give way, having tried it several times already. Trying to run was suicidal. All they could do was wait. The sun was setting and night offered their best chance of escaping this death trap. A flapping sound overhead forced Franz to look up.

  "What's that noise?" Jodl sobbed. "What is it?"

  Franz pointed into the darkening sky. "Bats."

  A pair of winged creatures was circling above the street, beating their wings in time with each other and observing the impasse.

  "How can they help us?"

  Franz didn't reply. He was content to watch the bats descending in slow circles towards the snipers' positions. A few seconds later and the Soviets started screaming.

  Hans had also seen the bats fly overhead. When a cry echoed along the road, Hans sprinted towards Franz.

  "Vollmer! What are you doing?" Witte shouted after him, but Hans kept running. By the time he reached Franz, the last Russian voice had fallen silent.

  "Franz, are you-"

  "Your friend is fine," a familiar voice interjected. Hauptmann Constanta appeared behind Hans, emerging from the building where one of the snipers had lurked. "I am only sorry we did not arrive soon enough to save the rest of your unit."

  "What about Brunetti?" Hans asked quietly. "Are you sorry about his death too?"

  The officer shrugged. "Consider his loss a lesson, a pawn who was sacrificed to make a point."

  Hans stepped closer to Constanta, dropping his voice so only the vampyr leader could hear his next question. "And what point is that, Hauptmann?"

  "Nobody is indispensable. He served his purpose."

  "Where the hell have you been?" Witte demanded of Constanta, having reached the doorway where Franz and the others had sought refuge. "My men have been getting butchered while you waited to make a bloody entrance!"

  The Rumanian officer regarded him coldly, his eyes narrowing. "I do not answer to the lower ranks, nor do I appreciate being shouted at by them. I suggest you moderate your behaviour, otherwise it will go the worse for you."

  Witte spat on the ground in front of Constanta. "You don't frighten me. I know what you are and I know how to deal with the likes of you."

  "Really?" Constanta lashed out with the speed of lightning, the back of his gloved hand smashing into the sergeant's face, sending Witte sprawling to the ground. Hans stepped between Franz and the Hauptmann to stop his comrade getting involved. As Witte scrabbled at
the buttons of his tunic, reaching the silver cross within, Constanta stepped on the sergeant's hands. His black leather boots pressed remorselessly on Witte's fingers, breaking the bones in them, one by one. The crack of each successive bone was accompanied by a fresh scream of agony from the prostrate soldier, his face contorting in pain. "You were saying?"

  Another Rumanian emerged from the buildings opposite, wiping his mouth clean. "Hauptmann, we're needed elsewhere."

  "Very well," Constanta replied. He gave one last stab downwards with his heel, breaking another two bones in Witte's hands, then removed the black boot. The officer glanced sideways at Hans, arching an eyebrow at him. "I am gladdened to see you are beginning to understand where the true power lies in this war, Gefreiter Vollmer. Congratulations on your promotion, by the way. I only hope your siblings share your good sense."

  With that, Constanta strode into the gloom. His footsteps echoed on the road surface. The other Rumanian fell into step behind him. The darkness engulfed them both.

  Franz stepped past the hysterical mess that was Jodl to confront Hans. "Why did you let that happen?" he demanded. "Between the two of us we could have done something to-"

  "No, we couldn't," Hans replied. "You saw what Constanta did to the sergeant." His gaze shifted to Brunetti's body further along the road. Crows had already gathered beside the corpse, studying it with interest.

  Hans thought that the message from Constanta had been loud and clear. Even the vampyr thralls were no more than equipment, to be used and then tossed aside once their worth had passed. When the war was over, all of humanity could become like Brunetti and the Russians - slaves or prey for the vampyrs. The Rumanians had to be stopped.

  Hans crouched next to Witte. The sergeant had curled into a foetal position on the ground, his broken hands quivering by his white face. "God, what a mess."

  Chapter Seventeen

  SEPTEMBER 7TH, 1941

  Klaus would not have believed what was happening at the prisoner of war camp if he had not witnessed it himself. Even then, the horror within the walls was the stuff of nightmares.

  Rumours had long been circulating among the Wehrmacht about what happened to people in conquered territories. It was said that the Einsatzgruppen moved in and ruthlessly cleansed these areas for German occupation. Klaus found such tales hard to believe until he went to the POW camp near Sighisoara. After that he could believe anything was possible.

  He had spent twelve days at the rehabilitation centre before Doctor Sheybal gave him permission to fly again. The director congratulated Klaus on making such a speedy recovery. "Most of our patients need weeks or even months to recover from such injuries, but you have shown remarkable resilience." They met in Sheybal's office, Transylvanian mountains filling the windows behind his sturdy oak desk. The doctor consulted his calendar. "Now, let's see. You've missed the last train east today and tomorrow is a Sunday. You can wait here until Monday if you wish."

  Klaus had insisted he didn't want to needlessly occupy a bed any longer. Sheybal volunteered to drive the pilot into Sighisoara and even recommended a clean, hospitable tavern for the next two nights. Klaus risked a remark about Constanta's visitation, but Sheybal seemed to have little memory of the incident. Perhaps it was a side effect of being in thrall to the vampyr, Klaus speculated. He gambled on asking Sheybal about the prisoner of war camp. "There must be hundreds of Russians there, even thousands. Aren't you worried about them escaping?"

  The doctor did not hesitate before replying. "I doubt they have the energy to think of escape, let alone to try." Sheybal pointed at a distant hillside. "It's on the other side of that. Only military personnel are allowed within a kilometre."

  "Why's that?" Klaus asked lightly. He noticed Sheybal's tic spreading across his pallid face.

  "It is..." the doctor began, but words seemed to fail him. "It is... forbidden." The effort of saying this was beginning to affect Sheybal's driving, making it more erratic. Klaus quickly changed the subject and Sheybal's twitching eased.

  It was Sunday morning and Klaus was striding towards the camp's front gates in full dress uniform. His nostrils were filled with the stench of burning fat. He thought that there must have been a tannery or slaughterhouse upwind. If only military personnel were allowed inside the camp, perhaps his rank would find a way in. Whatever was happening within the barbed wire fences was of great importance to Constanta. Klaus needed to see for himself, to discover whether the camp held any secrets he and his brothers could use against the vampyrs. Four Waffen-SS soldiers stood on the other side of the gate, armed with machine guns.

  Their leader, a sergeant with the top button of his tunic undone, sneered at Klaus as he approached. "What do you want? No unauthorised personnel are allowed inside."

  Klaus smiled. He had played plenty of cards between sorties, enough to know a bluff only succeeded if you got a psychological edge over your opponent. The pilot folded his arms and studied the four guards. "Never in all my days have I seen such a slovenly, disgraceful of insubordination. How dare you address a superior officer in such a manner. What is your name, soldier?"

  The sergeant frowned, suddenly uncertain of his own authority. "Erwin."

  "What?" Klaus asked.

  "Sergeant Erwin, sir." The soldier snapped to attention, saluting the new arrival. The other three hastily followed his example.

  "Why are the buttons of your uniforms undone? Do you always turn out for duty in such a slovenly manner? The four of you are a disgrace to this camp and to your unit."

  Erwin scrambled to fasten his buttons, gesturing for the others to do the same. "Sorry, sir. It won't happen again, sir."

  "I should hope not. Well, are you going to open this gate or not?"

  The sergeant ran forward to unlock the gate, but paused as he reached the heavy metal bolts. "Excuse my asking, sir, but we weren't expecting your visit."

  "Surprise inspections are being instituted at all POW camps. There have been reports of slackness and failure to follow procedure. It seems such reports are doubly true of this place," Klaus snarled.

  "It's just that, well, we need to see written authority before we allow any personnel to enter. Standard procedure, you see."

  "I should hope so too," Klaus agreed. Now was the moment of truth, when his bluff would be pushed to its limit. "My staff car broke down between here and Sighisoara. I left my driver to make repairs and walked the rest of the way here but, alas, I left my paperwork in the vehicle. If you wish to confirm whether or not I have permission, I suggest you contact Hauptmann Constanta in person."

  A single mention of the Rumanian officer's name was enough to have the gates open within seconds. The four guards saluted crisply as Klaus walked inside. He demanded a tour of the facility, choosing Erwin as his guide. "I understand you've been running low on medical supplies for the prisoners. Has this situation been resolved?"

  "I'm not sure," the sergeant admitted, leading him up a slope past the guards' barracks. "But a doctor from the rehabilitation centre delivered fresh supplies a week ago."

  Erwin reached the crest of the hill and gestured at the buildings spread across on a plateau below. "That's the POW camp. But we call it the Blood Bank."

  "My God," Klaus gasped.

  Row upon row of wooden huts stretched out below. There were close to fifty buildings in all. A metal box on legs, the size and shape of a small water reservoir, stood beside each, with pipes connecting it to the barrack.

  Hundreds of naked men, and a few women, were shuffling outside the huts. He could see that their jaundiced skin was hanging from their malnourished bodies. They resembled the living dead as they slowly circled the barracks. Sentries tormented the prisoners with machine guns and leather whips. Some of the POWs rested arms on each other for support, while a few lay twitching on the dusty ground.

  Klaus watched as another prisoner collapsed, her body surrendering to exhaustion and starvation. A sentry stepped forward and lashed the woman with his whip, its metal-tipped strand
s of leather slicing through her bruised, yellowing skin. When the prisoner did not respond, the sentry ordered two inmates to carry the body inside. "Drain her, then put the carcass in the ovens," he snarled.

  "Impressive, isn't it?" Erwin asked.

  "I've never seen anything like this before," Klaus admitted, battling to keep his revulsion from showing. "How many Bolsheviks do you have here?"

  "Up to twenty thousand, with at least two thousand new prisoners arriving every day."

  "Your barracks must already be beyond their capacity. Why are no new huts being built?"

  Erwin shrugged. "Few prisoners last more than a week. We've been keeping the ovens burning round the clock lately, thanks to all the POWs captured at Uman."

  Klaus nodded, not wanting to think about the implications of that. But he could not avoid asking another question. "And why do you call this place the Blood Bank?"

  The sergeant frowned. "I'm surprised you don't know, since the Hauptmann sent you."

  "He told me the trip would be... educational."

  Erwin laughed. "That sounds like Constanta. Lord Constanta, I should say. He prefers to be addressed by his ancestral title when he visits the camp, you see."

  "I can imagine," Klaus said. "I notice you have both sexes together here. Does that cause any problems?"

  "Not that we've noticed. Once the prisoners have been inducted and drained for the first time, they put up little resistance." The sentry paused, then sniggered. "When we need a little entertainment, we borrow one of the females for a few hours. We show her a good time. We usually do it as a group. That way we're all involved and they're not going to complain when there're a few of you around them. We were amazed that the Reds actually allowed women in their army, but those Bolshevik bitches have their uses, if you know what I mean. It's strange that many of them don't scream. It's good if you don't look at the eyes. That can really put you off."