Operation Vampyr

by David Bishop

  "Show me one of the barracks," the pilot replied, resisting the urge to attack the smug animal. And our leaders call the Russians sub-human, he thought. "I would like to see this 'draining' for myself."

  "Of course. This way," the sergeant replied.

  They marched down the hill towards the huts. He led Klaus to the nearest building and nodded curtly to a sentry, who was standing outside the main door. Once inside, Erwin stood aside to let the visitor get a good view.

  What Klaus saw turned his stomach and the stench was almost too much.

  Dozens of prisoners were bound to wooden crossbeams by their wrists. Their naked and emaciated bodies were hanging like wet laundry. He noted that their faces seemed unreal. They looked far older than they should, as if they had been just saved from a famine. None of them were moving, but he could tell that they weren't quite dead. One or two of the prisoners had their eyes open and they were staring off into a dark corner of the room. He could quite identify the musky smell, but he tried hard not to hold his nose.

  Needles had been jabbed into each of the prisoners, and Klaus could see red rubber tubes extending from them to tall glass bottles. Orderlies in white coats marched up and down the rows, examining the inmates. After a few moments, Klaus realised the rubber tubes were translucent. The red colouring came from the blood that was being drained from the prisoners' bodies.

  Erwin folded his arms proudly. "Initially the POWs were drained of blood until they died, but then one of our medics suggesting taking only two pints a day. By the third day the body has begun to replace the lost blood, creating fresh supplies in the same donor. Some of them can now last up to ten days using that method. I think the record is sixteen days."

  "Fascinating," Klaus said through gritted teeth. "And where does all this blood go?"

  "Watch," the sergeant replied, pointing at one of the orderlies. They removed a full bottle from beside a prisoner and poured its contents into a pipe. Erwin led Klaus outside to where the outflow pipe led into a metal reservoir tank.

  "Those are emptied everyday and the blood shipped out in a tanker."

  "A remarkably efficient system," Klaus agreed. "Where is the blood shipped to?"

  "I'm not certain," the sergeant admitted. "The Hauptmann told us the blood had to be purified before it could be recycled for use as part of the war effort." Erwin pointed toward the nearby Transylvanian mountains. "The purification plant is in those hills. At least, that's where the tankers go. They must have enough blood up there to fill a lake."

  A lake of blood, Klaus thought with a shudder. If Constanta does have a hundred of his kind along the Ostfront, how many more vampyr were still in those mountains? The pilot realised he was being watched closely by Erwin.

  "Excuse my saying so, Oberleutnant, but you've been asking a lot of questions. What did you say was the purpose of your visit here?"

  "A surprise inspection. I was a Luftwaffe pilot until a crash ended my days in a Stuka. Rather than spend the rest of the war flying a desk, I volunteered for the Einsatzgruppen." He shared a conspiratorial smile with the sergeant. "It's a dirty job, but someone's got to do it. I'm still waiting for my new uniform, as you can see. Well, I've seen quite enough for one day." And enough horrors to last a lifetime, he thought as the sergeant escorted him back to the main gate. "Thank you, Erwin. A most impressive facility. I will pass my congratulations on to the Hauptmann when I see him next. Good day."

  Klaus strolled out of the gate, willing himself to keep walking at an even, steady pace.

  "Oberleutnant!"

  Klaus turned back to face the four armed sentries. Erwin was holding out a clipboard and pencil. "You forgot to sign out. Every visitor to the camp must sign out."

  "Of course." Klaus scratched an illegible signature with the pencil provided, then returned the clipboard to Erwin. "Anything else?"

  "No, that's it," the sergeant replied.

  "Good. My driver should've fixed our staff car by now." Klaus walked slowly away from the death camp, his face a writhing mass of emotion. Never before had he seen such degradation and witnessed brutality on such a vast and appalling scale. The Russians were their enemy, but no prisoner of war deserved to be systematically drained of their blood.

  It was unspeakable and inhuman.

  Then Klaus remembered who was behind this sickness: Constanta and his vampyrs. They weren't human, so why did he expect them to act like humans? They were monsters and this place was the proof.

  Another thought occurred to Hans as he strode away, eager to get as much distance between him and the camp as possible. The sentries had the same, almost dazed expression in their eyes as Doctor Sheybal. If the rehabilitation centre's director was in Constanta's thrall, there could be little doubt Erwin and the other German troops running the POW camp were also under vampyr influence. How else could they become party to such barbarism? No decent soldier of the Fatherland would take part in such atrocities otherwise, it was beyond imagining.

  Klaus quickened his pace. The sooner he got away from Sighisoara, the better. He would send letters to Hans and Ralf, telling them what he had discovered. Trying to put all he had witnessed into words that would not be censored was not going to be an easy job, but his brothers needed to know what they were facing. Merely protecting themselves from the vampyrs was no longer an option. They needed to take direct action against Constanta and his kind. To do that, they would have to find more allies. The soul of the Wehrmacht was at stake.

  Chapter Eighteen

  SEPTEMBER 12TH, 1941

  It had been eighteen days since the 13th Panzer Division captured a bridge at Dnepropetrovsk that stretched nearly a kilometre across the Dnepr River. The bridgehead had been solidified with assistance from the 60th Motorized, the 198th Infantry and SS Division "Wiking", but fierce Soviet attacks continued from three sides. Dogfighting aircraft swarmed in the skies overhead, while Russian cavalry and riflemen flung themselves against the Wehrmacht's positions. Panzer crew casualties increased by the day, with the division reduced to half the strength that had begun Operation Barbarossa.

  For once, Erfurth saw sense and ordered those under his command to dig in until fresh orders were received. To Ralf's eyes, the Feldwebel had been a changed man since the confrontation with Gorgo, as if he sensed there were other forces operating below the surface of this war. Where once Erfurth would have demanded suicidal fervour from the division, now he was more willing to listen to reason. The Panzers' lack of progress at Dnepropetrovsk also worked in their favour, allowing time for supplies of ammunition, fuel and other essentials to reach the crews. This included a backlog of post: parcels of food and favourite items, letters from loved ones and from siblings serving elsewhere along the Ostfront.

  Ralf was delighted to receive some good German pipe tobacco at last. He permitted himself the luxury of a full pipe and retreated to his Panzer's interior to read a pair of letters, one each from Hans and Klaus. His younger brother alluded to a recent encounter with "our Rumanian allies" at Berislav, hinting he had been lucky to survive. That gave the tank commander pause and he studied the letter carefully, trying to read between the lines. Something had clearly rattled Hans. By comparison, Klaus's letter was a banal record of his time at a rehabilitation centre. Ralf was bemused, the florid style unlike the usual terse pages Klaus sent.

  "Gunther, see what you can make of this."

  The driver poked his head in through one of the hatches. "Make of what?"

  Ralf passed across the letter. "This. It reads like something my mother would write."

  Gunther read the letter, as bewildered at his commander by the prose style, then gave a smile of recognition. "It's an acrostic."

  "A what?"

  "An acrostic, a way of hiding coded messages within more mundane words." Gunther handed the letter back to Ralf. "Read out the first few sentences."

  "Ralf, Death and destruction seem miles from here. It's like being at that camp where you and I went once for a holiday. My nightmares hav
e now stopped, thankfully. All the pows and bangs are gone..."

  "Now try reading out only the first words on each line of text from the top to the bottom, then read out the last words on each line from top to bottom."

  Ralf glanced at the words Gunther suggested, his eyes widening. "Ralf... Death... camp... for... POWs... blood-"

  "As a sentence," the driver prompted. "Read them out as a sentence."

  "Ralf, Death camp for POWs. Blood being drained by our Rumanian friends. Need to meet at once. All in danger. Time running out. Klaus." He finished reading the acrostic message, his mind racing. "God in heaven, I knew the vampyrs were monsters, but this..." Ralf re-read the letter, checking the message again before looking at Gunther. "You're sure about this acrostic?"

  "My brothers and I used them when we got sent away to different military academies, it was our own secret code. Childish, really, but a lot of fun at the time."

  "This isn't fun," Ralf said quietly. "Gather the rest of the crew, they need to see this."

  Within minutes the other three had seen the hidden message.

  "Nothing surprises me about these fiends," Willy said. "Not after what they did to Muller, or those Russian snipers."

  "The radio is buzzing with messages from Army Group North about seeing the first snow fall," Helmut said. "Sounds like we can expect an early winter, and a bitter one."

  "Christ, it's only September," Ralf protested. "What happened to the autumn?"

  "Well, autumn rains are due to start any day," the radio operator replied. "Once they do we'll all grind to a halt in the bloody mud, no going forwards and no way of retreating. At least, not until the mud freezes and the rain turns to snow. Then we've really had it."

  "The war is the least of our problems," Willy interjected. "The closer we get to Christmas, the shorter the days become."

  "And the longer the nights get," Gunther added. "The vampyrs can hunt more freely then, but their pickings will get thinner as our progress gets slower. How long before they turn on us?"

  All the crew fell quiet, pondering the implications.

  It was Ralf who broke the silence, scratching at the venomous rash that had spread across his body. Water shortages, overcrowding and insects had left most of the men with skin diseases. Gunther glared at him and Ralf reluctantly stopped scratching. "We have to do something. In a few weeks we will be entrenched in our winter positions, unable to move because of the cold. That's when the Rumanians will become our greatest enemy. We can't wait until that happens, we have to find a way to stop them before they turn on us."

  "How?" Martin asked.

  "I don't know," Ralf admitted. "How much silver have we collected?"

  Helmut was in charge of storing the precious metal in the Panzer's nooks and crevices. "Enough to defend ourselves, but not enough to start a war - or even win a small battle."

  "What about the others?" Ralf's crew had been actively building support, slowly convincing the rest of the division about the true nature of the Rumanians. Hoepner's tales of what he had witnessed helped convince the more sceptical crews. Almost every Panzer was collecting its own small hoard of looted silver.

  Helmut shrugged. "Most started long after we did, so they don't have as much. In total, I'd say the whole division is carrying four times what we've got in this tank."

  Gunther frowned. "It would help if we knew how many vampyrs there are on the Ostfront."

  "I doubt Constanta is likely to volunteer that information," Ralf said wryly.

  "Then we must persuade one of his kind to tell us," Willy decided.

  "You're suggesting we capture one of the vampyrs and force them to talk?" Ralf said.

  Willy and Helmut simply nodded.

  "If we do this then there's every chance that Constanta will discover what has happened and what we've done. There'll be no turning back," Ralf pointed out.

  "Do you have a better suggestion?" Gunther asked.

  Ralf shook his head. He noticed that Martin had not spoken much. The commander rested a hand on the young loader's shoulder. "If you want out of this, now is the time to say so. None of us will think any the less of you."

  Martin smiled. "I've come this far, commander. Do you honestly think I'd stop now?"

  "Good answer," Ralf replied. "Helmut, use your contacts with the other radio operators to track down Hans and Klaus. Once we know where they are, it'll be easier to arrange a time and a place to meet. The rest of you are not to say a word to the rest of the division. I don't want to drag them in unless we have no alternative. This is one battle we can't afford to lose. For all of our sakes."

  Chapter Nineteen

  SEPTEMBER 13TH, 1941

  Hans's unit was in disarray, as were others nearby. The 11th Army had succeeded in expanding the bridgehead at Berislav, pushing Russian forces back from the eastern banks of the Dnepr. But confusion had engulfed everyone when the Army's leader, Generaloberst von Schobert, was killed when his aircraft landed in a Soviet minefield. One day on from that tragedy there was no clear indication from 11th Army HQ in Nikolaev who would take charge.

  Hans was all too aware of the confusion gripping his unit. Sergeant Witte was still out of action, waiting for his hands to heal. In the meantime, Hans was promoted to Obergefreiter to fill the gap, raising him to the same rank as his eldest brother. He did not feel worthy of the promotion and it was sullied further by hearing it had been recommended by Constanta. The Rumanian officer appeared to take perverse delight in advancing Hans's military career.

  "If he thinks such gifts will make me his servant, he's got another think coming," Hans muttered.

  The new Obergefreiter took advantage of the lull in activity to make a late afternoon visit to Witte at the field hospital tent in Berislav. It was constructed from several tents joined together to create a long ward with makeshift cots lining each side. Hans walked slowly among the wounded. He talked with those from his own unit and nodded to any he recognised from other squads. He finally located the sergeant in the last bed but one on the left. Both of Witte's hands were encased in plaster, only the fingertips were visible.

  The sergeant smiled as Hans approached. "I was wondering when you'd find time for me. Too busy enjoying the privileges of rank to visit your men?"

  "What privileges?" Hans replied. "Do I get a better class of lice now?"

  "Chance would be a fine thing."

  Hans sat on the edge of the bed, studying his sergeant's face. "You look tired."

  Witte nodded towards the cot opposite. "That one screams for hours every night. He thinks rats are coming to eat his eyes in the dark. You try sleeping through that."

  "I've always thought field hospitals would be much better places to stay if they weren't full of the sick and wounded," Hans said.

  "Amen to that," the sergeant agreed. He beckoned his visitor closer, then whispered in Hans's ear. "I saw one of them here last night."

  "Them?"

  "Not the Hauptmann, but one of his men - a leutnant. I think his name was Gulan."

  "What was he doing at a field hospital? He can't have been visiting one of his own."

  Witte shook his head. "He went from man to man with one of the medics, asking about each patient's condition, finding out which ones were the weakest." The sergeant gestured towards the last two cots. "This morning the men in those beds were transferred to another tent nearby. None of the orderlies will tell us why, nor whether the men are coming back." Witte let his head fall back on to the pillow, exhausted by the effort of talking. "Find them, Vollmer. Find out what's happened to them. Save them, if you still can."

  "Of course," Hans agreed. He studied the face of his mentor, realising how small and weak Witte looked in this environment. On the battlefield, the sergeant's presence had belied his slight, wiry stature. But there, lying on a field hospital cot, he looked like an old man, feeble and infirm. "How are your hands? The doctors say you don't need those plaster casts anymore."

  Witte could not meet Hans's gaze. "The doctors
are wrong," he replied, looking away.

  "Well, I'll let you get some rest," Hans said, standing up. "We need you back on the frontline with us, we need your experience."

  He approached the nearest orderly. "Excuse me, I was hoping to visit the soldiers that were in those two cots, but they have been moved. Do you know where I could find them? I have letters from home for both men."

  The orderly led Hans out of the main tent and pointed to another, smaller tent nearby. "That's where we keep patients who are unlikely to recover. The condition of both men has deteriorated rapidly in the last twenty-four hours. Our doctors are baffled, to tell you the truth. Neither patient is expected to survive much longer. Perhaps these letters you've brought will offer them some peace of mind."

  Hans regretted his deception, but it was a necessary evil. He thanked the orderly, then walked across the grass to the tent. Inside were half a dozen cots, all with white-faced patients lying on them. Several of the men were strapped down, their bodies thrashing and fighting against the restraints.

  A brown-haired soldier saw Hans and called him closer. Bandages swathed his chest and neck, but blood was soaking through the wrappings in several places. "Obergefreiter, you've got to get me out of here. The doctor is killing me!"

  "What's your name, soldier?"

  "Ostermann, Private Ostermann. I was wounded eight days ago, but that was getting better until this new doctor started treating me. Now the medics look at me like I'm ready to be shipped home in a pine box."

  "I'm sure that isn't so, private."

  "Ask them, go on. Ask them," Ostermann insisted. "No patient ever leaves this tent alive. Being brought in here is a bloody death sentence."

  "Where is this doctor?" Hans asked.

  The soldier's eyes slid fearfully to the tent entrance. "He's on the night shift, he should be here any minute."