As Rasch strode off to find his carriage, Von Struck looked back at the smirking Rohleder and shook his head in a pretence of disapproval.
"Where on earth did you find him?” Henning asked, nonplussed.
"Who, Rohleder or the Quack?”
"The Sawbones. I know where Rohleder comes from. His village is still mourning the loss of the best idiot they ever had.”
Rohleder gave Henning’s arm a friendly punch as he pushed past to follow Rasch.
On the train, Von Struck had his own compartment, a luxury that came with Heinrich Himmler’s patronage. He threw his luggage onto the bunk and turned to go to the men. A small knock on the door stopped him in his tracks, "Come in,” he called.
"Ah, Standartenführer, I just wanted a word with you about the mission.” It was Rasch.
"Yes, do come in, Herr Doctor," Von Struck smiled. ”I have brandy here somewhere in my luggage. Would you care for some?" he enquired politely.
"I think not, thank you. I just wanted to enquire how much you know of our aims in Romania. Did the Reichsführer SS explain it all to you?”
"All that I needed to know, I think, Herr Doctor,” said Von Struck, rummaging through his bags for the brandy.
Rasch was poised by the door, neither in nor out of the compartment. Von Struck gestured him in with a wave of his hand.
”Are you sure about the brandy? It really is excellent,” he said opening the bottle. He looked around for a glass or cup and couldn’t find one so, saluting the doctor with the booze, he swigged it straight from the bottle. Rasch was now in the compartment and he towered over Von Struck. He seemed awkward and ill at ease, and looked to be weighing something up in his mind.
"Well, as long as you’ve read the Blue folder that was given to you. You have, haven’t you?” he asked.
"Yes, most interesting. I wonder how they do it, the seeing in the dark thing; training, tactics or just plain eating lots of carrots?” Von Struck laughed.
Rasch did not smile back and started looking around for somewhere to sit. He found a stool by the door and sat on it. His expression was grim and determined, but the comically small glasses he wore and his posture on the too-small chair offset his sombre expression.
"Standartenführer, we have on our hands an operation that could change not just the course of the war, but everything. Religion, Biology, Physics, even History as we know it.”
"Herr Doctor Rasch, I’ve read the Blue folder and I know the outline of the mission plan and what is expected of me and my men. We – you - are to strike a deal with this Count. He fights for us and we go home as heroes. I don’t need to know about the rest. Whether they call themselves Vampires or Poodles I do not care. Just as long as they come and fight for us at night against Ivan, that is all that interests me.”
"So you don’t actually believe in vampires, then?" Rausch probed.
"I think, Herr Doctor, that Reichsführer Himmler has a lot on his mind. If he chooses to believe in folklore and mythology, that‘s his affair. I believe that our erstwhile allies have learnt the art of fighting at night and are using their skill to strike fear into a very superstitious Ivan.”
Rasch, pausing for a moment, looked down to the floor between the two men. In a tight and slightly embarrassed tone of voice, he continued. "I have never had the honour of combat. Therefore, this breakthrough about night fighting is a bit beyond my slender understanding of the game of war. Please explain it to me, if you would, Standartenführer.”
"It’s a simple concept to understand, Herr Doctor. Imagine that you have to lead a squad of men in pitch black without the aid of any light source whatsoever. You cannot shout at them - sound travels at night. Somehow, you must co-ordinate them into an effective attack formation and move them off through a wood or swamp in the direction of the enemy. We do attack at night, but nine times out of ten the momentum is lost in confusion and disarray, with the end result often in Ivan’s favour.” Von Struck took another swig of his brandy and continued. "If you have a force that has somehow mastered the art of co-ordinated night attacks and withdrawal, maybe even living behind enemy lines spreading terror and fear, if you have that at your disposal, then you could break a whole front.” He started to warm to the subject. "Ivan is very centrally led, that is they get orders and intelligence right from the top. If you could take out the command structure of an Army front, say, it would take weeks to get replacements that are politically reliable enough for old Joe Stalin.”
Rasch contemplated what he had just heard for a minute. ”So, you’re saying that a regiment, or even a division, of these night fighters could possibly win the war for us?”
"The war is already lost, Herr Doctor. It’s just a matter of time before we’re fighting on two fronts. What I am saying is that it could bring us some more time, maybe even a negotiable peace, but victory is no longer in sight.”
Rasch leapt from his stool, sending it crashing to the floor, his hands opening and closing as if in spasm, his body tense with rage. "How dare you.” he screamed, spittle flying from his mouth, "how dare you talk of defeat in front of a senior officer, a senior political officer. This will go down in my report to the Reichsführer SS." Rasch was livid.
Von Struck stared at Rasch, bemused by the change he had just witnessed.
"I was told that you are a loyal party member. How can you even mention defeat? I am duty bound to report this to the Reichsführer SS. Don’t you … ”
He was cut short by the only means Von Struck knew to gain attention, a sharp blow to the jaw. Rasch dropped like a weighted sack and looked up at Von Struck from the floor, his glasses askew and his lower lip trembling.
"I can mention defeat, Herr Doctor," Von Struck said standing over him, "because I know what’s going on in the East. While you were kissing ass in Berlin, I was on the front line. Every day Ivan gets stronger and every day we grow weaker. Ivan sends in whole armies to attack and we can only answer him with under-strength divisions. We squander our manpower guarding concentration camps and our rear areas because the people we have conquered have been alienated to the point of revolt by our terror and arrogance. We are not the Master Race, Herr Doctor, and believe me when I say that the Soviets are not subhuman either. I once believed that we were, I admit that, but now I know that the Master Race is the race with the biggest guns and largest armies.” He squatted down in front of Rasch and put his glasses on him properly, "I can confirm to you, Herr Doctor Rasch, that we do not have the bigger guns and larger armies. So where does that leave us?”
Rasch stood up and, after adjusting his uniform, he silently turned to leave. He stopped as if he had remembered something and said hesitantly over his shoulder to Von Struck, "I also hold the rank of Standartenführer, I would be obliged if you would use my rank when you address me in front of the men … please.”
"No, Doctor Rasch, I will not. To use your political rank in front of the men would be an affront to them and to the Kammeraden who have given their lives for the Fatherland. I will not disgrace the title to suit your vanity. Now get out.” He turned and took another swig from the bottle. Rasch took that as his dismissal.
Later on, in the troop’s carriage, Von Struck outlined the plan and mission in more detail. "Basically it’s just as Wolfgang explained to you all. We’re to escort the Doctor to this Count in Romania. It couldn’t be easier. Romania is an ally and the territory we’ll be in is peaceful. It’s our job to look professional and smart for the Count so he thinks that the German army is still the best in the world and not the pile of shit that we all know it is." He looked round the troops as they laughed. "So why did we get picked to do the job? I’m not complaining but it seems any fifty year old reservist could make a good impression if he shines his boots enough and marches in time," asked the younger of the two Bavarians, Nils Muschinski.
"Because our beloved Heini has ordered it. This Count has a Company of soldiers that specialise in night fighting. They’ve had a lot of success in the East and Heinrich wan
ts to show that we’re taking him seriously. It’s only a Company now but, if all goes well, it will be a Regiment soon and then a Division." He added as an afterthought, “Don’t be too hard on the Romanians, they’re brave and proud. Their failings as an army in the East didn’t lie in a lack of heart.”
He took in their stone-faced expressions. None looked convinced.
"They’ve had organisation and supply problems and we all know what that can do to an army. Their frontline soldiers have suffered from bad leadership just as much as ours have.”
The magic phrase ‘bad leadership’ brought on understanding nods from the old hands. They had all seen men die needlessly. The disastrous string of directives from the Führer’s Headquarters about holding ground at all cost and fighting to the last round had helped decimate one of the best-trained and motivated armies in the world. Bad leadership was a concept they could all understand.
"I'll tell you what though. Our noble Romanian allies do have a flair for the theatre.”
"Why do you say that, sir?” ventured the Leipziger, Berndt Grand.
"Well, it seems that they’ve named themselves ‘The Vampires’ to spread terror into Ivan.” He smiled as he said it to communicate his amusement. "It might be a good idea. We all know how superstitious Ivan is, but I can assure you all now that we will not be changing our name to ’The Wolfmen’ or '’The Cannibals’ to frighten Joe Stalin’s boys. We’ll stick with German Lead. All agreed?”
"What about ‘The Banshees’," Rohleder put in, "like Wolfgang’s singing when he’s pissed.”
"I’ve seen you with a couple of banshees in my time," came back Henning, quick as a flash " … and you pay ‘em too.”
The jokes seemed like a signal for the briefing to break up. Von Struck dismissed them and went to pay a visit to Rasch’s bunk.
Rasch opened the door in his pyjamas. "Is something wrong, Herr Standartenführer?" he asked, putting on his spectacles.
Von Struck smiled. "Not in the slightest. I just gave the men a briefing and I was wondering why you were not there.”
Rasch looked surprised. "Why I wasn’t there … ?” He pondered for a moment. "Should I have been there? I mean whatever for?” he asked nonplussed.
"Herr Doctor, we are travelling on this fine train, down to Romania, to carry out a mission in the name of the Reichsführer SS Heinrich Himmler. We are to make contact with a Romanian Count who will build and train a regiment for us, a regiment that can fight at night just as well as they fight by day, a secret weapon if you like. So I ask myself why is this Count talking to us and not to the Romanian Government. It just doesn’t make sense.” He leaned back against the carriage wall to study Rasch’s face. "There has got to be more to this than Heini has let on, is what I’m thinking. The Transylvanian Saxons come back to the fold story doesn’t smell right. So the briefing would have been a good time to explain the rest of the mission. Don’t you think, Herr Doctor?”
"You go too far, Standartenführer. Now is not the time for further briefings. You have read your mission objectives and you have no need to know more." Rausch paused and then added, " … for now. But you will eventually see why the Reichsführer SS is so impressed with this … as you say …. ‘secret weapon’.” Rasch’s face broke into a sardonic grin. "And you will also find out what we are offering and what I have been working on these last few months. The whole thing is quite unbelievable, trust me.”
Von Struck said nothing as he turned away from the Doctor and went to his bed as the train steamed on into the blackness of the wartime night, before lying in his bed and contemplating the death of Herr Doctor Rasch.
Chapter 9
In the night, Maria came to him. He had half hoped, half feared she would, but when she knocked on his door and stole into his room, instinct took over. She closed the door and stood before him in a sheer nightdress that covered everything and yet hid nothing. He studied her athletic body, the rise and fall of her breasts, the dark triangle of her sex. She looked wild and untamed, the hunger in her eyes banished all doubt as to her intent and he wordlessly strode over and took her in his arms.
They didn’t speak and their first kiss broke the dam of his lust. He ripped off the flimsy garment to expose her fully and he carried her to the bed. She pushed him back and hurriedly pulled his shirt off as he feverishly undid his trousers. He seemed overcome by an insane, animal passion and he ravished her as she lay passive under him.
They rutted like ferocious beasts, biting and clawing at each other, abandoning everything except their urgent needs. When it was over, they lay in each other’s arms panting and sated. Only then did he break the unspoken truce of silence to ask her who she really was.
She moved her head onto his shoulder and looked deep into his eyes to answer him. However, the question was unnecessary, for he knew who she was.
He had learnt things about his life that no rational man could comprehend. His whole existence had taken a new direction, a new meaning. All that he had understood about his past, about his very being, had been swept away from beneath him in a flood of disclosure. In the space of one night he had learnt everything about who he was and what his destiny was to be. It was fantastic and sudden but he knew, he just knew, that what the Count had told him was true.
* * *
The Count had shown no emotion as he had related his story. He had moved to the chair opposite to where Smith had sat, leaned back, crossed his legs and told the story of Smith’s life up to his being flown to the parachute drop site. No detail was spared and no quarter was given to the shock of the revelations that the Count now related.
"We were born to a dead woman – twins - one dark and one fair,” he started in accent-free English."She died while giving birth, as is traditional. Our father, Szoltan Dracyl the second, the seventh incarnation in the bloodline and the last name in the Cronica Insangerata, obeyed the Book of Blood and named you the Son of Utu before sending you away.”
Smith stared dumbfounded as he listened to the impassive, mono-toned account. He understood what the Count, his new-found brother, was saying but he could not relate the story to himself.
"You were watched and protected, guided and moulded to be the man you are now - a warrior and a leader, a man of authority and bearing. Your whole life has been shadowed by men loyal to our father and our bloodline, the masters at the military school and your career in the army, all orchestrated by my most faithful and trusted familiar … ”
"The Brigadier … ” Smith finished for him.
"Indeed. His family has served our kind since the Cronica Insangerata was first scripted. It was he who took you to England and placed you at the orphanage as a baby and the school later on. It was he who oversaw your tuition and his followers who saw to your character development. Finally, it was he who had you placed in the military. He stayed in the shadows and used his rank and influence, all paid for by our fortune, to have you accepted into the officer corps.” He paused and looked to Smith before carrying on, relishing the shock on Smith’s face.
Smiling wolfishly, he continued, "How else could an orphan with no money and no connections come to be a member of one of the most exclusive and pretentious institutions in the British military, The Cavalry Officer’s Mess?”
A thousand questions flitted through his head. It was too far-fetched to be credible but, deep inside, he knew he was hearing the truth. It felt so right and, although it raised more questions than it answered, the questions that it answered were those that had followed him throughout his whole life.
"Your destiny lies here with me. You belong here and you are needed here, for the sake of our bloodline and our kind. I have so many things to show you, things that will leave you in no doubt as to your destiny.”
"Tell me," Smith whispered, "tell me everything. I need to know.”
"All in good time. You’ve had a long day and you need to be rested and alert. Tomorrow, at eventide, I will reveal to you the rest. Believe me brother … ” the word ‘Brother�
�� electrified Smith, "believe me, you are essential to our future. I alone cannot carry on our line, for that I need you. You are destined for great things." With that he stood up and turned to Maria, "Make sure he gets what he needs.” Then to Smith, "Till tomorrow eventide, sleep well." With that, he was gone, leaving Smith in the room with Maria.
Smith realised that Maria was looking at him. It unsettled him and he broke the silence by asking where he would be sleeping.
"A room has been prepared for you upstairs. It is cleaner than down here," she added by way of explanation.
"I really should go have a wash, if you don’t mind showing me where my room is.”
She led him out of the library and took him upstairs. It was two thirty in the morning.
* * *
Alone in his room, Smith went over the events that had just unfolded. It was unbelievable. On the one hand he was elated to find that he was not alone in the world. He had a family (however out of the ordinary it was), and he had a past. His whole life had been guided and steered from outside by people who were loyal to his clan.
However, why now? Why let him wait so bloody long? Why was he called back to the fold at this precise time? The Count had said that he had to help carry on the bloodline, what did that mean? Did he have problems in that area? Why was he the twin that was sent away and what the hell was this Cronica Insangerata thing and the son of Utu?
He washed himself and went to the bed. It was a large four-poster, with spotless white sheets and a thick eiderdown quilt decking its large expanse. The whole room was a complete contrast to the filth of the ground floor. Tiled flooring, a roaring fireplace, carved wooden panels and stained glass windows, a bit too Gothic and Bela Lugossi for Smith’s tastes but nevertheless clean and warm.
The Division of the Damned Page 4
