Operation Vampyr

by David Bishop

  "I'll have a word with him. What's his name?"

  "Gulan," the private whispered. "Doctor Gulan."

  Hans felt fear crawling up his spine.

  Ostermann stiffened on the cot. "Oh God, here he comes."

  The other patients in the tent began to whimper with fear, several sobbing into their pillows as a shadow fell across the tent's entrance.

  Gulan entered like a hungry man in a butcher's shop, his gleeful eyes surveying the six patients. He wore the white coat of a doctor, but the emblem of the 1st Rumanian Mountain Troop was visible on his uniform's collar. Gulan had the same arrogant posture as Constanta, the same ageless quality to his swarthy features. He grinned broadly and his elongated canine teeth gleamed in the tent's dim lighting. "Well, how are we all feeling this fine evening? Ready for another night of intensive treatment, I hope."

  "Doctor Gulan?" Hans asked, surprising the physician. "I wonder if I might speak with you."

  The new arrival glared at him, one eyebrow arched enquiringly. "Who might you be, and what are you doing with my patients?"

  Hans approached Gulan carefully. "I'm an Obergefreiter with the 11th Army. I was visiting the wounded. One of them has been making some wild claims about you."

  The doctor sneered at the six patients. "You don't want to listen to the rants of a delirious man. Tell me which soldier made these claims and I will soon set him straight."

  "In a minute. First, could we talk outside?"

  "Very well," Gulan agreed. Hans glanced at the wounded men, noticing that all of them looked pale and wan, and that they all had bandages on their necks. There could be little doubt what was happening to them, not with one of Constanta's men in charge. Hans followed Gulan outside, where darkness was falling on the field hospital.

  "Well, what is it?" the doctor demanded. "I'm a busy man, I have no time for idle chatter."

  "This won't take long," Hans said with a smile, reaching into a pocket on his tunic. "I simply wanted to thank you for taking such good care of the men. It means a lot to us on the frontline, knowing our brothers in arms are being treated so well."

  "You're welcome," Gulan replied brusquely.

  Hans removed his hand from the pocket and offered it to the Rumanian. "Let me shake your hand, doctor."

  Gulan smiled, graciously reaching forward to accept the proffered handshake. But his kindly expression melted as the two man clasped each other's palms. Hans forced a silver cross into the vampyr's flesh.

  Gulan open his mouth to scream, revealing a pair of fearsome fangs. "Gahhhhh-"

  "Call for help and I'll shove this crucifix down your throat, you bloodsucking bastard," Hans said. "I don't care if it burns a hole right through your hand. You're going to listen to every word I want to say. Do you understand me?"

  The vampyr hissed venomously at Hans, his eyes blazing.

  Hans tightened his grip on Gulan's hand, pressing the cross further into the Rumanian's flesh. Wisps of smoke were escaping from between their hands, carrying with them the stench of charring flesh.

  "I said do you understand me?" Hans repeated.

  "Yes," Gulan spat. "I understand you!"

  "That's better. Now, why have you turned on these German soldiers? Why are you draining them of blood? Constanta told me your kind were on our side."

  "We fight this war to win."

  Hans tightened his grip further, eliciting another cry of pain from the nightwalker. "Answer my questions, parasite!"

  "We will stop at nothing to win this war. You Germans waste resources keeping alive men who can no longer fight. We choose to take sustenance from them, to strengthen ourselves for the battles ahead. This way your wounded can still give their lives for everyone's ultimate objective - defeating the Russians."

  "That may be the Fatherland's ultimate objective, but I believe your kind has another motive for joining this war. What does it matter to you who wins?"

  "The victor does not matter," Gulan conceded. "The balance of power afterwards - that is what counts most. The longer this war continues, the better for our cause."

  "Why?"

  The vampyr shook his head. "I have told you enough. Everything will become clear in time. Now, release me or suffer the consequences, mortal."

  "Not yet," Hans said. He jerked his head towards the small tent. "You will leave our wounded in peace from now on. They are not here to sustain the likes of you, monster. I will ensure each man is given a silver cross and has garlic hung over his bed. If I hear that one man dies in suspicious or mysterious circumstances, I will hunt down and destroy you."

  Gulan laughed bitterly. "You are signing your own death warrant, human."

  "Maybe," Hans agreed. "But I'd rather die fighting for the good of the Fatherland than as a light snack for the likes of you and Constanta." He released the Rumanian's hand, smiling with grim satisfaction at the cross that had been burnt into Gulan's bones. "Now, get away from this place and never return. Before I change my mind."

  The vampyr's eyes narrowed as he nursed his burnt palm. "You can't stop us, human. We are legion. By the time this war is over, our kind will have been to every battlefield, planted our kind in the ranks of every army that fights. You will never overcome us."

  With that, Gulan stalked off, his white coat swirling around him.

  Hans told himself that he had won, but for how long? Even if Gulan never came back, there would be others. The vampyrs were becoming bolder all the time, less and less unconcerned that news of their presence would spread along the Ostfront.

  He was still contemplating what he had done when his unit's radio operator appeared in the twilight. Private Weidner had joined in the last week, one of numerous replacements to cover for recent losses. "Obergefreiter, I've been looking for you everywhere. There's an urgent message." The portly private handed over a hastily scribbled note. Ralf had sent it. It summoned Hans to a meeting with Klaus in two days at a place called Ordzhonikidze.

  "Private, have you heard of this location?"

  The radio operator nodded. "It's a village between here and Dnepropetrovsk, on the western side of the river. You'll need transportation, but the road there is not dangerous."

  "Send this reply," Hans said, chewing his bottom lip thoughtfully. "Will meet at noon on 15th, stop. Southern edge of village, stop. Much news to share, Hans, stop." He got Weidner to read back the message. The private was nervous about transmitting personal communications on military channels. "I take full responsibility for this," Hans assured him. Weidner turned to go. "Private, what religion are you?"

  "Catholic, Obergefreiter."

  "Good. Do you carry a Rosary?"

  "Yes, always," Weidner replied, patting one of his pockets.

  "May I borrow it?"

  Doubt crossed the private's features. "Can I ask why?"

  Hans nodded his head toward the small tent nearby. "The men inside are wounded badly, some are close to death. A Rosary would be of great comfort to them. I promise to get you another before we leave this area."

  Weidner took the chain of one hundred and sixty-five beads from his pocket. He was careful to rest its silver crucifix on top when he pressed the Rosary into Hans's hand. "I'll go and send that message."

  "Thank you, private." Hans held up the beads. "I know how difficult it is for you to part with this. If it's any comfort, this Rosary means more to those wounded than you can ever know. It could save their lives, as well as saving their souls."

  Chapter Twenty

  SEPTEMBER 15TH, 1941

  Klaus was first to arrive at Ordzhonikidze, landing his new Stuka on a long, flat field to the west of the devastated village shortly before noon. If anyone questioned his presence, he would claim to have heard worrying sounds coming from the Ju 87's engine and had stopped to find the cause. He was flying solo, still waiting for someone to replace Heinrich in the cockpit. They had flown more than a hundred sorties together, developing an empathic ability to anticipate how the other would react to danger. Finding a gunner to
match Heinrich would be close to impossible, Klaus was certain of that, but finding a gunner who would understand the threat posed by the Rumanians - that might be even tougher.

  Having concealed his plane beneath a canopy of tree, Klaus walked into the deserted village. Ordzhonikidze had been the scene of fierce fighting earlier in the campaign, when the Russians were still falling back to the Dnepr. The village was shelled with incendiaries by the Soviets as they departed, razing most of the buildings to the ground, denying food and shelter to the advancing Germans. The remains of Ordzhonikidze were like a husk. Those civilians who could flee had done so, while the rest died in the Bolshevik firestorm. Seeing such devastation at close range was a dispiriting experience for Klaus. As a pilot, he got a bird's eye view of his targets and little more. Once the bombs were dropping, impact zones became plumes of smoke and fire. Seeing a typical village after it had been bombarded was a stark reminder of the war's human cost.

  The spluttering sound of an approaching motorcycle caught his ear. Klaus retreated to the shadows of a burnt out building, drawing his Luger while keeping watch over the nearby road. A cloud of red dust rose in the distance. Klaus wished he had brought a pair of binoculars to observe who was coming. Eventually the motorcycle was close enough for him to see it had a sidecar attached, a passenger sat low beside the rider. It was a Zundapp KS750. The motorcycle paused close to Klaus's hiding place, the engine's characteristic sputter slowing as the rider let it idle. The two travellers removed their helmets and goggles, revealing clean patches on their dust-covered faces.

  "Hans!" Klaus called out, emerging to welcome his younger brother. The siblings embraced joyfully, happy to see each other again. Klaus offered to shake hands with Han's passenger, then realised the man in the sidecar had both arms in plaster. "Sorry, I didn't-"

  "Don't worry," the passenger shrugged. "I'm Witte, Sergeant Josef Witte. You must be the flying Vollmer brother. Help me free from this death trap and I'll be in your debt, Oberleutnant." Once the sergeant was out, Hans hid the motorcycle from the view of passing vehicles or planes.

  "What happened to your hands?" Klaus asked.

  "Hauptmann Constanta," Witte replied grimly.

  Hans returned, his eyes searching the surrounding area. "Any sign of Ralf yet?"

  No sooner had he spoken than the sound of a Panzer rumbled into earshot, making its way through the ruins of Ordzhonikidze. Within a minute, the tank rolled into view, Ralf's head and shoulders protruding from the commander's hatch. He called something into his radio headset and the Panzer rolled to a halt. Several more hatches opened to reveal other members of his crew.

  Once everybody was acquainted, Klaus pointed at the building where he had taken shelter. "I think that was the village Univermag, before the Reds torched this place. The interior looks sound and it still has a roof. Why don't we talk in there?"

  Ralf and the others agreed. Gunther clambered back into the Panzer and drove it into the shell of another building nearby, where the remains of a mezzanine floor hid the tank from anyone flying overhead. By the time he returned, the other seven had assembled makeshift seats from broken crates and abandoned furniture. Cigarettes and pipe tobacco were exchanged, drinks from Feldflasche were shared and tunic buttons undone.

  Once they were all settled, Ralf cleared his throat to talk. "Firstly, thanks for coming. I know it can't have been easy getting away. I persuaded our beloved Feldwebel we're busy searching for a Soviet fuel dump."

  Hans said he was supposedly taking Witte to see a specialist about his hands, while Klaus explained his engine noise excuse. For the next hour they all talked about recent encounters with the Rumanians: seeing Constanta awarded the Iron Cross by the Führer; the POW camp where blood was being drained from thousands of Russian prisoners; the death by decapitation of Gorgo's driver and how Muller was turned into one of the vampyrs and the increasing boldness of Constanta's kind, as shown by Gulan taking blood from German wounded.

  By the end of these recollections all eight men were grim-faced, any humour gone from their moods. Ralf stated his belief it was a matter of time before the vampyrs turned on the Germans. "The incident Hans witnessed at the field hospital is simply the beginning. These monsters need little justification for taking anyone's blood. Up to now they have chosen to attack the Bolsheviks because it suited their purposes, made them appear worthy allies to our leaders in Berlin. Mark my words - when winter comes and we can't advance any further, Constanta and his brethren will not hesitate to get sustenance wherever they can."

  Klaus agreed with his elder brother. "But what can we do to stop them? There are eight of us, eight people we know we can trust. I don't know how many vampyrs there are along the Ostfront, but I'm willing to bet they outnumber us at least ten to one."

  Hans nodded. "We can't plan to move against them without more facts."

  Ralf smiled. "That's why my crew has brought a surprise guest to the party. Gunther, Willy, could you fetch our friend from the Panzer? Throw a blanket over him so he doesn't burn to a crisp in the sunlight, but you needn't be too careful."

  Klaus waited until the driver and gunner had left before questioning his sibling. "Are you insane? You captured one of the vampyrs and brought them here - why?"

  "Like Hans said, we need facts," Ralf replied. "Our friends with the fangs are the only ones who know the truth. This way we get our knowledge straight from the monster's mouth."

  Gunner and Willy returned, pushing a screeching, cowering figure hunched beneath a blanket. Foul-smelling smoke rose from several holes in the fabric where the sun had burnt exposed skin. Once the two crewmen were inside the Univermag, they ripped the blanket away and shoved their captive to the floor. He was clad in a Leutnant's uniform, the bat and swastika emblem of Constanta's troops clearly visible. Hook-nosed and sallow-faced, the Rumanian had greasy black hair and cruel eyes. The vampyr was a repulsive thing, whimpering and pathetic. Both arms had been securely tied behind his back and a string of garlic bulbs hung round his neck, crudely sewn to the collar. Klaus hated the creature on sight.

  "This one is called Dumitrescu," Ralf announced. "We captured him near Dnepropetrovsk. Claimed he was on a mission from Constanta to assess tank strengths in the area. We think he had been spying on our division, but we're not sure why." Ralf lashed out with a boot, kicking the Rumanian in the face. "You've been reluctant to talk so far, haven't you?"

  Dumitrescu glared at Ralf. "You'll pay for what you've done to me," he sneered, then swept his gaze round the others. "All of you will pay."

  Klaus ignored the threat. "How do we know this is a vampyr, not one of their thralls?"

  Helmut produced a silver cross from round his neck. "We tested it." He grabbed Dumitrescu by the neck and pressed the crucifix against the captive's face. Dumitrescu howled as the cross burned its way through his skin and into his flesh, smoke rising from the wound. Helmut wrenched his cross away, wiping traces of scorched meat from its surface. "Our friend here is also rather squeamish about sunlight, garlic and holy water. For a creature of the undead, he has quite a few vulnerabilities."

  "Good," Hans said. "We need all the help we can get to defeat them."

  Dumitrescu laughed at loud. "Defeat us? You will never defeat us. We're immortal."

  "Should we throw you out into the sunshine and see how immortal you are then?" Ralf asked. "Martin, I think our guest wants to leave." The loader pulled open a wooden door, allowing light to spill inside. Dumitrescu scuttled away, desperate to avoid another burning. Ralf laughed bitterly. "Not so cocky when somebody stands up to you, hmm?"

  Witte cleared his throat. "I've heard about all the things these monsters can do - turning into wolves and bats, even into mist. How have you kept this one captive?"

  "We discovered garlic disables his ability to transform," Gunther replied. "That's why he's wearing a garland of it, to stop him escaping."

  "I will enjoy watching you die," Dumitrescu promised from the corner. "I will laugh as the Sire keeps you ali
ve for centuries, to suffer in his service. Then, when he is bored of you as playthings, I will ask for the chance to kill you, one by one. You will beg me for death."

  "Don't count on it," Ralf snarled. He reached inside one of his boots and pulled out a serrated knife. The blade was wickedly sharp, one edge brighter than the other. "I had this dipped in molten silver. Who wants to use it first?"

  Dumitrescu peered at the knife uncertainly. "What are you going to do with that?"

  Ralf grinned. "We're going to torture you until you agree to tell us everything we want to know about Constanta and the other vampyrs - their numbers, their locations, their plans, how they contact each other, everything. Then, once you agree to talk, we'll torture you some more, to make sure you're telling the truth. How does that sound, you bloodsucking piece of Scheisse?"

  They began with Dumitrescu's extremities. Using the silver-dipped knife, they sliced off his toes one at a time. As each was severed a stream of black, foul-smelling liquid spat from the wound. At first, the vampyr's body tensed as he attempted to control the agony. Once all the toes were gone, they moved on to his fingers.

  Each of the men - bar Witte - took it in turns to attack Dumitrescu's cadaverous body, the plaster casts on the sergeant's forearms preventing him from wielding the knife. Instead he made sure Dumitrescu did not black out by spitting mouthfuls of holy water from Ralf's Feldflasche into the vampyr's, pleading face. Each drop of consecrated liquid scorched a fresh hole, until there were enough gaps that Dumitrescu's darting, blackened tongue was permanently visible - even when his mouth was closed.

  The vampyr screamed and hissed at them, hurling abuse in different languages. The noises he made sent shudders through the soldiers' bodies like nothing they had ever known. Ralf supervised the torture, making sure nobody got too carried away. He explained a theory he had about the vampyrs, that they only could be killed by silver if the wound would have been fatal if it had been inflicted upon a human. "That means we can keep hurting this repulsive creature almost indefinitely, using my silver-edged knife to increase his suffering."