Dracula vs. Hitler
Page 32
“The purpose of this operation?” Harker asked.
“They are tasked to create a list of Rumanian undesirables,” Van Helsing told them.
The weight of that statement hung in the kitchen like smoke from the stove.
“Files on everyone with Jewish blood, genealogies going back four, five generations,” Van Helsing continued. “Lists of gypsies, homosexuals, Communists, leftists, and some certain individuals whom your government either think a threat, just dislike, or merely desire their estates.”
“And, in time, these people will be collected and sent to the camps, I assume,” Lucille said. “Never to return.”
“You said twofold,” Dracula said. “What is the other value at this factory?”
“They have begun manufacturing a shell for a new artillery piece,” Van Helsing replied. “A version of the Great War’s Big Bertha. Called the Schwerer Gustav and the Dora. Siege guns. A cannon, the biggest ever. So large it can only be transported by multiple railroad cars. A super-heavy howitzer shell able to penetrate seven metres of concrete, one metre of armoured steel. Range anywhere from thirty-seven to fifty-five kilometres.”
“You could fire such a gun across the English Channel into London,” Harker said with some alarm.
“Two types of shells are being made in Gheorghe,” Van Helsing continued. “A seven-ton and an eleven-ton projectile. Devastating weapons.”
“So the artillery production must be stopped,” Lucille summarised, “and the list destroyed.”
“But as was stated before, the plant is impregnable,” her father added.
“Then we must have a plan,” Dracula said.
DATED: 22 MAY 1941
TO: CSS REINHARD HEYDRICH, RSHA, REICHSFUHRER-SS
FROM: SS MAJOR WALTRAUD REIKEL
CC: HEINRICH HIMMLER, REICHSFUHRER-SS
(via diplomatic pouch)
MOST SECRET
Received your communication. Am proceeding with dispatch and my utmost to capture the aforementioned. The local rebel forces have at least one spy in our headquarters; the intelligence concerning the departure time of the intercepted railroad shipment was known only by my office. Rather than immediately root out this leak, we have, instead, put this awareness to our own use. I have put forth memos and orders establishing an operation centred at the Sfantu Gheorghe munitions manufacturing facility. This operation, plus the production of the munitions plant, should be enough enticement to flush out the seditionists and our primary target. In addition to the falsified written documents, I have given verbal orders regarding the decoy operation. These conversations were intended to be overheard by as many personnel as possible.
Adding to the fable, an office has actually been set up inside the factory, staffed with a motley squad of Rumanian military under the supervision of one of my trusted Lieutenants. Even he is unaware of the ruse. He sends me daily complaints detailing the incompetence of his charges.
Three Gestapo cadres from Ploesti and a security detail from my own unit have been dispatched to the Sfantu Gheorghe factory.
The security unit has been briefed by me personally with the threat of the firing squad if any of this information ever goes beyond the unit.
I am confident that this is sufficient bait to lure our adversaries and their latest recruits, the English spies and the one you seek.
I will keep you updated on our progress.
Heil Hitler.
FROM THE WAR JOURNAL OF J. HARKER
(transcribed from shorthand)
MAY 23, 1941
I am a blithering fool! I do not know what possessed me. I suppose that when I walked into the kitchen and saw them conversing, laughing with such intimacy, I immediately felt like an interloper and something came over me. I do not know what.
Yes, I do. It was jealousy that thoroughly put my nose out of joint. Simple, ugly jealousy. The problem is that I like the man, correction, the vampire. He is personable, intelligent, and seemingly honourable. Or has been so far. I have attempted to overcome my feeling for the fair Lucy, to forget that one night of bliss, but I fall short. I fail miserably. I am not that strong.
And so I made a complete botch of things. My father once told me that many a man has been led astray by thinking not from above the neck, but from below the belt. He forgot to tell me about the space between, the heart. That is where this uncouth behaviour has been born; that is where my pain dwells.
I must seem desperately sad and broken to her. And I must admit my stalwart manhood seems to have shrunk somewhat under the strain of my much-tried emotions. This has been a bitter blow, and I am reminded of my mum’s admonition that oft-times we have to pass through the bitter water before we reach the sweet.
But I must soldier on. What is at stake is more important than my emotional straits: the upcoming mission and the eventual world conflict that will inexorably roll toward us when Russia and the recalcitrant Americans summon up the mettle to join the good fight.
I have been deceptive in my postings to headquarters and this has given me further dolor. I have made no mention of the vampire in my dispatches to my higher-ups, neither his participation in the jaunt down south nor in the rail rescue. I am convinced that if I did, the believability of my bulletins would suffer. I know what they would think if I reported whom I was working with—a mythical creature, much less Dracula himself—it would be met with incredulity and cause some doubt as to my sanity and thus my ability to conduct my mission. They would think me barking mad. At minimum I would be called back to England. And I do not want to abandon this unique opportunity, or leave dear Lucy. So, I push on with the sin of omission.
So far, on my return to Brasov, I have still been unable to rouse the local partisans into a more aggressive effort of sabotage and harassment. I made an appeal to Anka, Pavel, and Farkas at the railroad rescue, but the fear of extreme reprisals holds them at bay. And I do not reproach them, as the Nazis have a history of committing one monstrous act of revenge after another. After all, it is their families and friends at risk. I try to think what I would do if this were happening in Great Fransham, Norfolk, or Monk Sherborne, Hampshire. Would I risk the lives of my fellows and relatives?
But this “undesirables” list, as it is called, should be a worthy target and, again, it is far enough from Brasov to not cause any local retaliation. Yes, the Germans will be able to reassemble such a census again, but our raid will stall such efforts, and we will be able to alert those on the roster. Plus I must do something, anything.
Each day I hear about the despicable bombing of my country and the bravery of the British airmen as they defend our homeland. I want to do something to help. For King and country and all that. This long-distance artillery shell being manufactured at the prison factory is an imminent and immediate threat to my own home and hearth. I must do what I can to eliminate this threat.
In case we are successful at Sfantu Gheorghe, I have been working on an escape route to transport any of those on the list out of Rumania to Istanbul and Odessa. Using the local cell and some SOE assets in the neighbouring countries, a series of friendlies will harbour the fugitives and move them on to the next haven, then from station to station until they are free of Axis control.
But more than delaying the Nazi operations, this raid will be seen as a statement against the German-Rumanian rule, a banner the partisans can hold high. It can help attract more people to their cause and possibly lead to the more aggressive activities frequently and forcefully recommended by the Home Office.
Now if only the easement of my personal problems was as hopeful.
EXCERPTS FROM UNIDENTIFIED DIARY
(translated from the German)
. . . and so the noise about Poland will be blown away like wheat chaff in the wind. Who remembers the extermination of the Armenians? No one. If Herr Wolf can send the Flower of the German Nation into the Hell of War without the smallest pity for the spilling of precious German Blood, then surely he has the right to remove an inferior race tha
t breeds like vermin.
May 25
If Herr Wolf is destined to Rule the world, any act that advances that rule is justified. Rule or Perish—the only outcomes worth consideration.
[Editor’s note: The word “rücksichtslos!”—“ruthless!”—has been scrawled across the entire page.]
Herr Wolf cannot sleep. He thinks he has cancer. He is a constant victim of Headaches, Dizziness, Pains in his gut and lower intestines. Oft-times after a long bath the symptoms recede. He paces through the day. The possibility of the existence of this Creature has him, despite his ailments, in a fervour of mental intoxication. If this legendary being exists, then we will silence our critics, the unbelievers.
Ever since the early days in Vienna, Herr Wolf had been a reader of Ostara, the publication wherein the mystical theorist Lanz von Liebenfels put the Occult in concordance with modern Science. Herr Wolf has since been a Believer.
Herr Wolf has hoped that the search for and acquisition of the Spear of Destiny would be enough to quiet the doubters, but a thorough examination of the object found no magical properties or emanations. This artefact is either a fake or not actually the true lance of Longinus.
And Otto Rahn’s search for the Holy Grail, fabled to hold power of indescribable magnitude, produced only what seems to be an ordinary wine cup. Whether it was used in the Last Supper or not, the item has no occult properties at all. In fact, the vessel hardly holds water.
The expedition in North Africa for the Lost Ark has provided even less-satisfactory results, as has the investigation in Tibet concerning a certain elixir of Eternal Life.
Herr Wolf is aware that this interest in the Supernatural is mocked. But even the haughty British have allowed the Coventry Witches to create a magical Circle of Power around their cherished island in hopes of preventing an invasion. They even subscribe to the notion that we did not follow Dunkirk with an invasion due to the success of this conjury.
Herr Wolf’s bombers defy that ring of thaumaturgy every day.
HH believes. He is a devotee of Clairvoyance, Faith Healing, Sorcery, and attempting to produce gold from base metals. He assisted Herr Wolf in enabling Hanussen to bring back the mandrake root from the butcher’s yard in Herr Wolf’s birthplace to eliminate any hindrance to Herr Wolf’s ascendancy.
Herr Wolf’s investigation into what some may call the Fantastical is based on pure Scientific Principles. Does not every facet of our world require proper and equal examination? Some folk remedies have been proven to be as efficacious as modern drugs.
Lately our scientists have been able to transform a physical material called Uranium into a completely new element, Plutonium. They are very enthusiastic about the process and promise it could even lead to a new weapon of some consequence. So the mythical Philosopher’s Stone becomes real and the Alchemists’ dream, the transmutation of the elements, becomes fact. Most of these investigations into Myth and Magic will prove false, but how many attempts failed before man flew like a bird? Another feat deemed impossible until it was accomplished.
Thus Herr Wolf’s consulting of an Astrologer or a Numerologist and exploring the possibilities that other Extraordinary Phenomenon might have merit is no more futile than assuming a blind Corporal might some day become Fuhrer.
There are things that one cannot understand and yet which are. Ah, it is the fault of our Science that it wants to explain all; and if it explains not then it says there is nothing to explain: corporeal transference, materialisation, astral bodies, reading of thought, hypnotism. There are things done today in electrical science which would have been deemed unholy by the very man who discovered electricity—who would himself, not so long before, have been burned as a wizard.
Now we will have scientific proof of what was previously thought as fantastical. Already the victims of the train assault (or bits of the victims) are being examined by an associate of Dr. M. This man, a Baron von F, exploring the possible existence of Dippel’s Oil, an Elixir of Life, is now studying the blood of ones bitten and hopes to discover some clue to their predator’s corporeality.
Meanwhile, Herr Wolf’s mind spins with the possibilities of this new find. He has read up on this legendary being. This foul thing of the night has the aid of Necromancy. It can direct the Elements, the storm, the fog, the thunder. It can command the meaner things, the rat, the owl, the bat, the moth, the fox, and the wolf. It can become small, grow, vanish. It can translocate upon moonlight rays as elemental dust. It can command The Dead!
We must capture the Creature! We must!
FROM THE WAR JOURNAL OF J. HARKER
(transcribed from shorthand)
MAY 27, 1941
Our preliminary reconnaissance of the munitions factory brought back bad news. The entire complex has been walled in with a fourteen-foot-high construction of corrugated steel and iron stanchions topped with barbed wire. The area inside the walls is patrolled by guards. In the enclosed area, crude barracks have been erected to serve as quarters for the slave labourers while newer construction houses the guard unit. The workers are supervised by armed guards day and night. There is but one entrance, a broad gate wide enough to allow lorries to enter, delivering materiel and new prisoners to replace those who have died on the job. The product of their labours exits from the same gate.
The production lines work twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. If one of the labourers drops from exhaustion or starvation they are shot on the spot. Some workers die at their station. The bodies are thrown into the smelting furnaces. I saw this with my binoculars. My surveillance perch was the roof of a tall office building across the street from the factory.
The roof of the factory has a row of narrow windows near the peak that are permanently louvered open, allowing a release of the fetid air and, in the day, light to work by. These openings gave me a clear view of the interior. It is a view into hell. Smoking, steaming machines of every variety, among them huge ten-ton presses that shake the earth with their incessant pounding. Dirt and grime coat the apparatus and the workers. Steel shell casings are being stamped, welded, milled, loaded with gunpowder, and capped with the projectile itself.
The product of this malefic operation is artillery munitions. The shells are uncommonly large. I thought it was a matter of my inclined perspective, but I was able to do comparisons of adjacent familiar objects and realised that each shell was approximately five metres long.
I reported my recon to the partisan leadership cell. They were all sitting around that scarred table in Mihaly’s basement. Dracula stood off alone in a shadowed corner. I noticed that Lucy sat upon stacked bolts of cloth in close proximity to the vampire.
I was glad that I had to concentrate on my presentation. The others examined the map that I had drawn with the help of Renfield, who had accompanied me on our recce. He proved to be an excellent draughtsman.
“Guards inside the factory itself?” Farkas asked.
“Above and below,” I told him. “They patrol a catwalk above the production line and walk below among the workers. All armed. The guards on the floor are meant to keep the labourers’ noses to the grindstone. If a prisoner slows or falls, he is beaten. There are fewer guards at night than in the daylight hours.”
“Where do they keep the gunpowder stores?” Van Helsing asked. Renfield’s ears pricked up at the question, happy that we were finally discussing something he had an interest in. He stepped to the table and pointed at the proper place on the map.
“A series of berms behind the factory proper,” I elucidated. “Not as far away as they should be for safety, but the re-tooling of the factory allowed only so much distance. They also store the finished shells in the same area. Here and here. Stacked in pallets waiting for transport.”
“Ach!” Renfield exclaimed. “All that boom together.”
“Yes, Sergeant.” I patted him on the shoulder. “You are going to have an opportunity to use your toys.”
“Where is the list being compiled and kept?” Anka asked.
“Here.” I pointed. “In an office on the second floor of the factory proper. It overlooks the factory floor with windows allowing the shift foreman to observe the production lines.”
“Right in the centre of the complex,” Pavel noted. “Surrounded by a wall, a factory, and all of the guards.”
“This is a very dangerous operation we contemplate,” Farkas said.
“I think it is impossible,” Anka declared. “Tell the English to bomb it with their planes.”
“Not possible without killing the workers,” Lucille said.
“They are doomed either way,” Farkas replied.
“So we have to find a way inside, take possession of the lists, and destroy the records, then find our way out without harming any of those poor people,” Van Helsing summarised. “Not an easy task.”
“Actually,” I added, “I think we should free the prisoners.” And I described the exit route and strategies for evacuation I had prepared for those on the lists.
“Donae forget the boom,” Renfield said with a bit of worry in his voice, like a child reminding his parents they promised him a sweet.
“A boom would be nice,” I said. “A very big boom to destroy the munitions. But only after we are able to evacuate the labourers.” I could not get the images out of my mind, those poor wretches slaving over their machines, the brutality of their minders, the degradation and pure misery I had seen during my recce. I had to do something to rescue them from that debased life. Something, anything, or their plight would surely haunt me.
“I do not like this. Twenty-four-hour military sentries, three layers, four layers deep. It is a death trap,” Anka said and brushed aside my map as if it were a soiled napkin.
“I think I may be of assistance in this venture.” It was the first time Dracula had spoken.
Anka glared at the vampire. “We had a meeting and have made a decision regarding your participation in our fight,” she announced. “We will no longer ally ourselves with such an ungodly monster.”