by David Bishop
"Witte? Maybe," Hans agreed. "He suspected the Rumanians long before I did. But whether he'd be willing to act against them, that's another matter."
"Try sounding him out, but be careful. We cannot be sure of anyone besides each other. Anybody could be a thrall of the vampyrs," Ralf said. "Even unwittingly."
"What do you mean?" Klaus asked.
The tank commander frowned. "There's something that's bothered me since we rolled into Soviet territory - where have all the Russian prisoners of war gone?"
"They're being transported to detainment camps, behind our lines," Hans said.
"Yes, but where are those camps?"
"In Rumania," the infantryman replied, realisation slowly dawning in his face. "I heard the biggest camp was not far from Sighisoara, in Transylvania."
"Exactly," Ralf muttered.
"I don't understand the significance," Klaus interjected.
"That's where Constanta comes from," Hans replied.
Ralf nodded. "You've got to wonder what's happening to all those Soviet POWs."
An hour later Klaus was back in his cot at the field hospital, failing to get any sleep. It had been a joy to see Ralf and Hans, but the pilot's body was making him suffer for spending so long in the wheelchair. The pain from his injuries was excruciating, but it was the disturbing conversation with his siblings that kept him from sleeping. Separately, the three brothers had encountered parts of a puzzle far larger than any of them realised. They had compared experiences and the picture was becoming far clearer and infinitely more frightening. If their suspicions about the Rumanians were true, each of them was in danger. Klaus felt certain that there was something far greater at stake than the lives of the three brothers.
The sour orderly who had sent them outside paused to check Klaus's condition. "Good news," he announced. "You're being transferred to another hospital for another operation, then on to a rehabilitation centre. Guess you can thank your brother the war hero for that."
"Where am I going?" Klaus asked weakly.
"I'm not sure which hospital is performing your surgery, but the rehabilitation centre is in Rumania, at a place called Sighisoara," the orderly replied. "You'd better get some rest. I'm told the journey can be hellish."
Klaus watched him go. If the journey is hellish, he thought, what would Sighisoara be like?
Chapter Thirteen
AUGUST 4TH, 1941
Hans was gratified to see Ralf among those at the medal ceremony. Despite their frequent clashes, he felt closer to Ralf now that they had a shared enemy. The ceremony was taking place in a cobbled courtyard on the western outskirts of Uman, not far from an airfield captured by the Germans several days before. The square was flanked by tall stone buildings, two large archways providing the only entrances to the enclosed space. Hans could see his brother among the guests stood along the north and south sides of the courtyard. The medal recipients waited for the Führer along the eastern wall.
As dusk approached, the sound of an approaching staff car announced the imminent arrival of the German Army's Supreme Commander. The black vehicle swept into the courtyard, small flags fluttering on the bonnet. It braked smoothly to a halt and a Leutnant emerged, saluting crisply as he opened the rear door. Everyone in the courtyard snapped to attention, a thousand boots stamped loudly on the cobbles. The Führer emerged, smiling and holding up a hand to acknowledge them.
Hans had seen Germany's leader in the flesh once before. At the age of twelve he had been among 54,000 boys and girls from all over the Fatherland chosen to take part in the Adolf Hitler March, a gathering at Nuremberg stadium. He counted himself fortunate to have been chosen and luckier still to be within sight of the main podium. It was filled with adults, but, like all the others, Hans only had eyes for one person - the Überwavter. When he appeared, everyone began shouting with one voice, crying out: "Heil Hitler!" The roars of adulation continued for many minutes before drum-rolls and fanfares brought the noise back under control. To Hans's eyes, the Supreme Commander had appeared like a god. He had loved Hitler more than his own parents, then.
Six years had elapsed since that glorious day. Now he was to be personally introduced to the Führer and receive a medal he did not deserve. The experience felt beyond reality, yet all Hans could think about was what he and his brothers had discussed the previous day. Hans knew he would never get another chance like this. Surely it was his duty as a good soldier of the Fatherland to alert his Supreme Commander to the vampyr threat against the Reich?
Hans compared his memory of the Führer from that glorious day in September 1935 with the man stepping from the staff car. Back then Hitler had been a giant to Hans's boyhood eyes, not in height but in stature. Now the Supreme Commander of all Germany appeared little different from the men in uniform clustered around him.
Hans waited patiently as the formalities were observed and the other men of the Wehrmacht received their medals. He glanced sideways to see how close the Führer was and felt his blood run cold. Constanta was among those waiting to receive their medals. The Rumanian officer appeared composed and solemn as Hitler approached. Hans could not understand why he had not seen Constanta sooner, until he remembered how long they had all waited. No doubt the Rumanian had stayed indoors until there was no danger from the setting sun. Constanta twisted his glance sideways and locked eyes with Hans, raising a finger to his lips and smiling.
The message was clear: be careful what you say.
Hans tore his eyes away and looked across to Ralf, but his brother was busy talking with one of the other guests.
Fearfully, Hans turned toward Constanta. The Hauptmann was bending forwards to allow the Führer to slip a medal over his neck. When Constanta straightened up, Hans could see that he had received the coveted Iron Cross. Did Hitler realise what sort of creature he was honouring? Soon it was Hans's turn to have his moment with the Supreme Commander. He could feel his heart beating hard, with a strange sense of pride and fear. Hans was clearly intimidated by the sheer presence of the Führer, the immaculate uniform, the way he addressed each soldier. As the Führer stepped up to him, Hans saluted crisply. The medal was pinned to his chest and then they shook hands.
"Congratulations," the Führer said, his voice full of formality. "I understand you wiped out an entire Russian patrol almost single-handedly. With men like you at the front, it shall not be long before these Bolsheviks crumble completely."
Hans smiled and did his best to accept the praise gratefully, trying to avoid his nerves coming through in his voice. "I did what any good soldier would do. There are others who deserve the credit far more than me."
Hitler raised an eyebrow at this, apparently amused by Hans's answer. "And so modest! Truly, a credit to your unit."
The Führer was about to move on, but Hans somehow found the courage to speak again. "Excuse me, sir, but there is something I wanted to ask you."
"Yes? What is it?"
Hans took a deep breath, not sure how to phrase his thoughts. "How far should we go for victory? What means must we be willing to use to defeat the Russians?"
Hitler smiled, but his eyes were cold. "We must win," he replied, "by any means necessary." The Führer's gaze flickered sideways to Constanta. "By any means."
Chapter Fourteen
JUNE 16TH, 1941
Nearly a fortnight had passed since Hans's medal ceremony. Ralf had returned to his tank and told the others all he had seen and heard. For Ralf, the most disturbing moment was seeing the Führer laughing with a man bearing the emblem of the vampyrs. His disquiet had deepened further when he discovered the identity of that austere figure: Hauptman Constanta, leader of the 1st Rumanian Mountain Troop. Any lingering loyalty Ralf felt for his Supreme Commander died then. If Hitler was in league with the undead, nobody was safe until the vampyrs were destroyed.
Gunther and the others vowed to follow Ralf into hell itself, if necessary. They had no qualms about collecting silver rings from the bodies of fallen comrades, nor about loo
ting any silver they discovered between battles. With the Uman Kessel closed around the Soviets and the 13th Panzer Division waiting for fresh orders, the last few days had been uneventful. Ralf's crew had busied themselves searching for silver, slowly accumulating a stockpile of the precious metal. When another Panzer crew questioned this, Gunther explained Ralf wanted to be rich when he went home for Christmas. The driver even had the nerve to encourage other crews to follow their example. A single tank could only carry so much extra weight and they needed all the silver they couold get.
Ralf believed he would have to enlist the aid of other Panzer crews, but could see no easy method of convincing them about the Rumanians. Ironically, it was Sergeant Gorgo who provided the answer. The 13th Panzer Division was despatched towards Dnepropetrovsk, a town on the western bank of the Dnepr River. Gorgo's five T-34s had joined the German armour for the journey. Soviet forces were falling back to the eastern bank of the Dnepr, seeking to protect its key crossing points. As usual, the retreating Russians left pockets of men and armour to slow the German advance.
It was such a pocket that ambushed the Panzers and T-34s. The tanks had stopped for the night at the remnants of a hilltop village. Few walls stood more than a metre high and no signs of life remained when Ralf led his crew on a hunt for silver. Their search proved fruitless, but it did mean they were away from their tanks when the Russians attacked under cover of darkness. Soviet shells rained on the encampment. Each explosion flung out a devastating hail of shrapnel. Ralf and his crew had dived for shelter at the first distant boom of the enemy artillery, but many others were not so fortunate.
The shelling continued for thirty minutes, only ceasing after a Schwarm of Stuka was called in to bombard the Soviet artillery positions. But the sound of men dying or weeping with pain was audible long afterwards. It was Martin who stumbled over Hoepner in the darkness, the driver from Erfurth's Panzer clutching a tunic round his left thigh. Hoepner screamed in agony, bringing Ralf and the others to his side.
"What happened?" Gunther asked, gently lifting the tunic to look at the wound.
"Shrapnel sliced right down to the bone," the driver replied weakly. "It was... bizarre."
"What was?"
"I was arguing with Gorgo's driver, Iliescu. He was between me, and the shell that it exploded. Shrapnel hit Iliescu in the throat, decapitating him."
Ralf could see no sign of the dead Rumanian. Then he remembered what Gunther and Klaus had said. "What happened next?"
Hoepner shook his head. "You'd never believe me."
"Try us," Willy urged.
The wounded man shuddered. "Iliescu just... turned to dust before my eyes." Hoepner searched the faces of the five men watching him. "I said you wouldn't believe me."
"Did he turn to dust, or to ashes?" Helmut asked.
"I don't know," Hoepner said. "I wasn't paying that much attention, because the same piece of shrapnel embedded itself in my leg. It's still in there."
Ralf looked to the others. "We need to get that shrapnel out."
Gunther nodded. "The sooner the better."
"What are you talking about?" Hoepner demanded, all colour draining from his face.
Ralf knelt beside the driver. "We believe Gorgo and his men are carriers for... an infection. If any part of Iliescu is still on that shrapnel, you could also be infected."
"Infected? With what?"
"Vampyrism."
Hoepner stared at Ralf as if the tank commander had gone mad. When Ralf did not recant his suggestion, Hoepner turned to the others. They all nodded in agreement.
"You're insane, all of you," Hoepner said. "There are no such things as vampyrs."
Gunther gripped one of Hoepner's hands. "We're friends, have been for a long time. Have I ever lied to you?"
"No, but-"
"But nothing. This is the truth. How else do you explain Iliescu exploding into ash?"
"I can't, but what you're suggesting is..."
"Beyond belief? Maybe," Ralf agreed. "But it's also the truth."
Mercifully for Hoepner, he passed out when Gunther began removing the shrapnel. As it came free something squirmed on the bloody surface of Hoepner's leg, the crimson stain coalescing into a shape. No, not a shape, Ralf realised, a face. Eyes and a mouth appeared in the moist redness, grinning evilly. Ralf had already sent Martin back to Panzer for a flask hidden beneath the commander's seat. The loader almost dropped it when he saw what was on Hoepner's leg.
Ralf twisted the lid off the flask, then poured the contents over the wound. "Who's got a match?" he demanded.
Gunther pulled a packet from his tunic pocket and lit one.
"Throw it on the alcohol," Ralf said. "Do it!"
Gunther dropped the lit match on his friend's leg, turning away as the mixture of blood and alcohol caught fire. As it burned Hoepner jerked awake and cried out, but his voice was overwhelmed by the unearthly screams of Iliescu. The Rumanian's face appeared in the black, greasy smoke rising from the burning leg, a chilling keen issuing from the writhing mouth. Gunther used Hoepner's tunic to put out the fire, while the injured man stared in disbelief at the vision hovering over him. Then the face faded away, the smoke floating into the night sky, disappearing into the heavens.
"What in God's name was that?" Hoepner asked weakly.
"Our real enemy," Ralf replied quietly. "And it walks among us."
Gorgo appeared from the shadows, demanding to know where Iliescu was. "We don't know," Gunther replied. "Perhaps he took a direct hit from one of the Russian shells." The Rumanian sergeant glared at the Germans suspiciously before leaving. Once he had gone, Ralf examined Hoepner's leg.
"The fire seems to have cauterised your wound. It needs a medic, but you'll survive."
The driver was shaking his head, struggling to comprehend the situation. "I saw that thing with my own eyes and yet..."
"Now you know what we're up against," Helmut said.
Two hours later, Erfurth called an assembly of all the Panzer commanders and drivers. Once they had gathered in two lines, he stepped forward to address them.
"It's been a tough night, but for the most part we have been fortunate. My own driver is injured but the medics tell me he'll pull through, thanks to Vollmer and his crew. Sergeant Gorgo has not been so lucky. His driver is missing, presumed dead, and the Rumanian T-34s are needed to help another division nearby. One of you will be seconded into Sergeant Gorgo's tank until he can acquire the services of another driver. Are there any volunteers?"
Ralf suppressed the urge to laugh. The Rumanians had made themselves exceedingly unpopular with the Panzer crews, thanks to their malevolent attitude. Rumours were already spreading about what had happened to Hoepner and gossip travelled fast in armoured divisions. Besides, each crew was bound by a loyalty forged in the cauldron of battle. Nobody would willingly abandon their own crew to join that of Gorgo.
"Very well then," Erfurth said unhappily. He made an impatient gesture and the Rumanian sergeant emerged from the darkness. "You may choose a replacement from among the men, but I reserve the right of veto. I do outrank you," the Feldwebel added.
Gorgo bristled at this comment before turning his attention to those assembled. He strode along the two lines, muttering something in his own language as he passed each man. Finally Gorgo stopped behind Gunther. "I want this one. He is impertinent, but has shown some skill as a driver."
"Charming," Gunther whispered to Ralf. But his smile vanished when Erfurth agreed to Gorgo's choice.
Ralf broke ranks to approach the Feldwebel. "Permission to speak with you in private?"
Erfurth nodded, beckoning Ralf away.
Once they were out of hearing by the others, Ralf pleaded the case for exempting his crewman. "Gunther's the best driver in our division and you know it. It's bad enough they have laid claim to the abandoned T-34s, we shouldn't let the Rumanians steal our best men as well."
The Feldwebel was not convinced. "Perhaps, but I'm under direct orders from Berlin to s
how them every consideration."
"Gunther saved your driver's life tonight," Ralf replied. "If you don't believe me, ask Hoepner yourself."
"I've already talked with my driver, thank you," Erfurth said prissily. "He was full of praise for the quick thinking of your men." He sighed. "Very well, I will spare your driver. But do not consider this any sort of precedent."
"Thank you."
The Feldwebel nodded regally, then returned to the men. "I have decided to exempt Gunther Stiefel from this duty. Sergeant Gorgo, you must choose again."
"I have already chosen," the Rumanian snarled angrily.
"Be that as it may, you must choose again."
Gorgo glared at the Feldwebel, but Erfurth would not give way. Eventually, the sergeant gestured at the nearest man, a driver called Muller. "Him, he will do."
"Very well. Gefreiter Muller, you will gather your personal items and report to Sergeant Gorgo within the next fifteen minutes. The rest of you are dismissed."
Twenty minutes later, Gunther was still thanking Ralf for his timely intervention when a man's scream was heard in the distance.
"That came from the Rumanian tanks," Ralf said.
He and Gunther raced to where the T-34s were clustered. Men from several other Panzer crews joined them, arriving in time to see Muller emerge from Gorgo's tent. The ashen-faced driver was wearing a Rumanian uniform, one hand holding a dressing over a wound on his neck. When the others asked what was wrong, Muller waved away their questions.
"I'm fine," he insisted. "Something flew into me in the dark and I scratched my neck. It's nothing to worry about."
