The Division of the Damned

ISBN
             
1475155433

EAN
             
978-1475155433

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

'The Division of the Damned' is published by
Taylor Street Publishing LLC, who can be contacted at:

http://www.taylorstreetbooks.com

http://ninwriters.ning.com

'The Division of the Damned' is the copyright of the author, Richard Rhys Jones, 2012. All rights are reserved.

The cover design is by Chris Salmen of Combat Colour, copyright 2012. All rights are reserved. Combat Colour can be contacted at [email protected].

All characters are fictional, and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is accidental.

"Assyria knew the vampire long ago, and he lurked amid the primeval forests of Mexico before Cortes came. He is feared by the Chinese, by the Indian and the Malay alike; whilst Arabian story tells us again and again of the ghouls who haunt ill-omened sepulchres and lonely cross-ways to attack and devour the unhappy traveller.”

The Vampyre, His Kith and Kin, Montague Summers, 1928

Chapter 1

Russia

1944

They flew from tree to tree, as silent and cold as the churning snow around them. Armed only with blade and tooth, they darted through the night with supernatural grace. The dark held no secrets for them as the day held
no
mercy and, slick and practised, they spread into formation as the quarry neared.

On a densely wooded hill five miles away from the German lines, a lone Russian guard stamped his feet to ward off the cold. It w
as the dead man’s stag, two ‘til
three, and he was bone tired. They had driven all day before halting to set up the communications post, then he had serviced his wagon, set up the tented area for the officers and helped position the radio masts. Now, after only three hours
’
sleep, he was back on guard duty and he couldn’t see further than his dire need of a cigarette.

The war would soon be over
,
he reckoned. A couple more months and then he could go back to his hometown. There he would find a wife, start a family and work on a farm or in a f
actory. He would be a hero and
on family gatherings, he would regale them all with stories of how he single-handedly took on the might of the Fascist army and conquered them.

Like pouncing arachnids, they dropped from the trees on the unsuspecting camp. The lone Russian’s last sensation was the warm gush of blood spurting from his now lacerated throat and the voracious teeth that greedily violated the wound. As the blackness of death dimmed his sight, he heard the first screams of the officers and men he had been guarding as the enemy wreaked carnage and death.

With steel and fang, they killed and fed the way they had always done.

No mercy, only butchery and then gorging on the blood of the fallen.

Chapter 2

Berlin

Early 1944

Newly promoted
Standartenführer
Von Struck marvelled at the pretentious grandeur of his surroundings. After three years of virtually constant fighting, three years of mud, horror and atrocity, he felt almost affronted by the luxurious opulence of the building he was in. The marble flooring and collection of busts and statues were a world apart from the stark and unforgiving hell of the Eastern Front.

Chic young secretaries walked briskly up and down the spotless corridors, themselves dressed in uniforms so smart and clean that they could have been hospital whites. The hours he had spent pressing his tailor-made uniform and polishing his boots counted for nothing in their eyes, and they treated him with the polite disdain office personnel affect when dealing with the blue-collar soldiers of the front.

Even the Iron Cross pinned to his tunic was just one of many. "How does a desk jockey get an Iron Cross?” he wondered idly.

O
pposite him, a tall, effeminate-
looking Luftwaffe officer flirted with a giggling, young secretary. The same giggling secretary he had asked a quarter of an hour before where he was to report to. He had waited long enough and decided to ask again. The Luftwaffe officer whispered something quickly into the girl’s ear as Von Struck approached and the secretary tittered again before looking up.

"Excuse me,
" he s
a
i
d
, "but I’ve been waiting a good fifteen minutes now. I just need to know where I should report to and, seeing as you don’t seem too busy at the moment, could you make a couple of phone calls to find out?” He smiled to make a friendly impression as he had learnt long ago that ordering Party bureaucrats around does not always deliver the desired results, especially with the ladies.

The tall Luftwaffe officer stood up and looked down his nose at Von Struck. Pressed and polished to the point of fetish, hair oiled tight to his skull, he screwed
his face in theatrical disgust.
"Do you mind?" he demanded
.
"We’re talking here."

Looking Von Struck up and down, his eyes lingered on the Knight’s Cross before moving on. "Is it normal in the Waffen SS to interrupt a superior officer while he’s talking official bus
iness? Is it
,  Standartenführer
...
?” He started to take a pen and paper out of his tunic pocket.” …
Name?”

The secretary sniggered audibly and the tall officer glanced at her from the corner of his eye. Von Struck wasn’t sure which of the two he found more annoying, the joke of an officer using his rank in an attempt
to intimidate him or the girl egging him on with her adolescent
smirking.

”Come on, man, what is your name? Are you deaf or just plain stupid?”

Von Struck saw red as the unspoken derision he’d felt since entering the building boiled over into a reflex action. He calmly took a step forward, grabbed the other man’s jacket and pulled his face down to his knee. Gristle crushed against thigh and the immediate warmth on his leg told him the nose was broken.

The girl screamed and stood up. Von Struck dropped his now limp opponent and moved to the girl, slapping her once before grabbing her hair. The smack abruptly stopped her screaming and he pushed her back down in her chair. ”Now start phoning
,
" he hissed in a barely suppressed rage.

The black uniformed guards of the Chancellery security were on him within two minutes.

*  *  *

The cell was in the basement of the Chancellery. The door opened and the tall, imposing figure of SS Brigadeführer Holaf stormed in. "What in the name of Stalin's organ do you think you were doing?” he shouted. "You’re not in Russia anymore. This is Berlin
,
damn it. Are you out of your mind, man?”

Von Struck stood up. He had no answer and found it hard to believe he had done it himself. He had acted on impulse and instinct, as he had for the last three years; it had seemed like the right thing to do. In the East, his reactions had always saved his life but here in Berlin they just marked hi
m for the front line animal they thought he was
. He had been in the cell for three hours and the talk was already of court-martials and firing squads. The man that he’d knocked out was the son of an affluent businessman who had friends in high places. The wealthy executive was not happy, the son was not happy and Brigadeführer Holaf was not happy.

"I’m not joking, Markus
. I
f it wasn’t for your record in combat and your proven loyalty to the party, you would have been shot already,” Holaf snarled.

"Jawohl
,
” was all he could think of as an answer.

The Brigadier’s face softened as his anger waned. "You can’t just go slapping people around, Markus. It just doesn’t wash here in civilisation." He wanted to be angry but he saw too much of himself in his quick-tempered protégé. "It doesn’t pay to make enemies here in Berlin, I know from personal experience,” he growled and turned his back to Von Struck to hide his grin. “Come on then, let’s go meet Heini," he said over his shoulder.

*  *  *

Looking like a joke schoolmaster, Heinrich Himmler, the second most powerful man in the Third Reich, tsk-tsked over the report of the incident. "Not good, Standartenführer
,
” he said.
"
N
ot good at all. These aren’t Bolshevik peasant girls. They are future mothers for the next generation. We can’t just strike out at them when we wish. It’s not civilised; not to mention Erich Frohmann’s eldest son. Frohmann has a lot of friends in the party, Standartenführer, a lot of friends. God alone knows how I’m going to satisfy him without your blood.” He sighed. "Don’t let it happen again. Let that be the end of the matter." With that, he threw the report into the wastepaper basket.

Von Struck and Holaf both stood ramrod straight in front of his desk. Although Holaf was a very senior high-ranking officer, Himmler still insisted that military courtesy be observed and that meant that everyone stood to attention in front of the Reichsführer SS, just so they all knew their place.

"Brigadeführer Holaf, have you briefed your man?”

"No, Herr Reichsführer. Standartenführer Von Struck came straight from the front and we didn’t have time to meet.”

"No time for the niceties, eh?
I like that in a man, Von Struck; directness, no indecision. That’s why Holaf here has offered your services for a very delicate mission. You’re a proven soldier who hasn’t failed yet in any mission. But if you fail on this one, then I’m afraid we’re all lost.”

Von Struck raised an inquiring eyebrow but remained silent.

"Are you aware how far-reaching the Germanic culture is, Standartenführer?" he asked. They both remained silent, as decorum dictated. "We have colonies who trace their roots back to Germany all over the world. Whole populations of people have turned their back on their host countries to stay pure and
Germanic,
did you know that, Standartenführer?" Himmler stood up and walked around his massive polished desk.

Pacing up and down, he carried on with his oratory. "We can find little bits of Germany from Russia through to France.
Sometimes only a small town with a modest percentage of German speakers, other times a whole area that uses German as its first language.
Whatever the scale, it doesn’t matter. The fact is these peoples have kept up the struggle to keep our culture alive. They have suffered. They have been persecuted for their beliefs, but they have fought on. We owe it to these people, these crusaders, to give them every support they desire. Don’t you agree?”

"Jawohl,
Herr Reichsführer
,”
they replied in unison.
The Reichsführer
was famous for his melodramatic outbursts, so they listened in stoical silence, giving the required answers as and when they were called for.

”Have you heard of the Siebenbürger Saxons, Herr Standarten-führer?”

"Nein, Herr Reichsführer
.
"