Michael Thomas: Night of the Nazi Zombies

Reaching down inside the hull of the tank he floundered, trying to find the crew weapons that they kept inside for emergencies. His hand touched a familiar item; it was a PPSh-41, one of the prized weapons he’d managed to hold onto following his posting to this unit. He had first found this weapon when fighting near the waterfront at Stalingrad. The gun, though perhaps not the most accurate in the world, was incredibly reliable and back in the East the supply of ammunition was plentiful.

He grabbed the stock only to find his leg being pulled by one of the people. How could they be people? They must be some kind of savages, who knows? He reached as far as he could but the arm pulling him yanked him away from the weapon.

“Shit, shit!” shouted Steiner as he was pulled out from hanging inside the tank turret. There were now at least four of the animals on the tank hull, one of them was hanging onto his leg, another was lowering itself, its mouth open, as if to bite his leg.

“Fuck this,” shouted Steiner as he grabbed the now empty flare pistol. He pointed the weapon and pulled the trigger. There was nothing but a click.

“Shit!” swore Steiner. He looked at them and then at the flare gun.

“Fuck this and fuck you!” he shouted and threw the weapon at the man holding his foot.

The pistol struck the man and for a brief moment he released his hold on Steiner’s leg. That was all the time he needed. Throwing his hand out, he grasped the solid metalwork of the submachine gun and pulled it up to his hip. Lifting himself to a sitting position he cocked the weapon. Though still in an awkward position he was now armed and suddenly felt a wave of relief boost his reactions. He aimed at the nearest figure and held down the trigger. The gunshots echoed loudly in the open ground of the lane and the bright muzzle flash showed these animalistic people in all their bloody savagery. The submachine gun, one of the millions made by the Soviets for use on the Eastern Front was an excellent weapon. It was well built, sturdy and carried a circular drum magazine beneath it. The drum carried seventy one powerful bullets and right now each one was slamming into anybody Steiner could see. With a third of the bullets gone, he lifted himself up so he was standing on the tank. Aiming first to the left and then to the right he fired short, controlled bursts, each one knocking down another person. He stopped shooting, the gunshots still reverberating down the lane. Not one of the things was still standing.

Steiner jumped down from the tank, much steadier as his blood was still pumping adrenalin. He had to step carefully as the ground was slick with gore from his shooting. He could hear something, it sounded like groaning from one of the bodies. Moving slowly over the fallen he reached the body. It was hard to make out as the light was still poor. Putting his boot on its shoulder he pushed. Before the body was completely turned over though, its arms reached out, grabbing for him. As he was kicking it away the other men on the ground started to do the same, several of them started lifting themselves back up of the ground. All of them dragged themselves towards Steiner.

He leaned slightly forwards, lowered the PPSh-41 and aimed it carefully at the horde. Steiner swore loudly, and then pulled the trigger. The muzzle flash was large and bright, bullet cases pouring from the ejection port of the weapon. He held down the trigger and fired in a wide arc, cutting down the creatures one at a time. As the sound of the gun echoed through the dark lane the sound of Steiner’s shouting became louder and louder.

CHAPTER TWO

The three Handley Page Halifax bombers pushed on through the quiet skies of the English Channel. These aircraft were part of the British frontline, four engine heavy bombers used by the British Royal Air Force. They were powered by the latest 1,650 hp Bristol Hercules XVI radial engines and it was just as well because every ounce of power was needed for their current mission. Behind each of the huge British bombers was an equally massive Horsa Mark I glider. These unpowered aircraft had an eighty eight foot wingspan and could carry nearly thirteen thousand pounds of men and equipment. They had been designed after seeing the success of German airborne operations. The Allied governments had decided to form their own airborne formations and it was this decision that led to the creation of two British airborne divisions, as well as a number of smaller units.

The bombers, whose normal job was to flatten German cities, were this time tasked with delivering the first wave of British paratroopers to the shores of Northern France. Behind the trio of aircraft subsequent waves of bombers, transports and gliders, would deliver thousands of airborne troops, each tasked with objectives ranging from destroying weapon sites, capturing bridges and holding strategic towns. Following this huge air armada would be the largest naval invasion force in history, over five thousand ships of all kinds.

This particular wave of bombers and gliders was tasked with the critical mission of capturing and holding a series of bridges, the most important one and their initial objective being the Orne River Bridge. Once captured the lightly equipped airborne infantry would have to hold them until relieved by the regular infantry. It was a risky mission and one that could only be carried out by the very best infantry the British Army had to offer.

Sergeant Smith, a thirty three year old veteran of actions in France and Norway, was sat alongside the rest of the twenty five men sitting on the bench seating installed in the glider. Sat immediately to the right of Smith was his commanding officer, a green Lieutenant called Harvey. Though this man was undoubtedly competent, he had been a last minute replacement and so far had done little to inspire confidence in Smith. Only a couple of days before they had been training when Harvey had become confused with the maps and sent his unit directly into the path of their enemies who happened to be a unit of Polish paratroopers. It was a big embarrassment and one that the unit was keen to erase in the opening hours of this operation. Next to the new Lieutenant was one of the unit’s Bren gunners, Jones. Of the other men in the unit each carried either a No.4 Lee Enfield rifle or one of the latest generation Sten MK V submachine guns.

Jones leaned over to Smith, shouting over the wind noise.

“How long till the landing zone?”

Smith, with his map case already resting on his leg double-checked. It was not easy to navigate with limited visibility in the glider. He had been checking with the pilots though and had studied the terrain and their landing zone for weeks.

“Another six to seven minutes. We should be passing the…”

“What the fuck?” shouted Harris, one of the unit’s riflemen.

The glider suddenly dropped as the tow cable was released. With the glider no longer being pulled through the air the aircraft needed to lose height to maintain its speed and lift. The unexpected quick change threw some of the passengers about. The unit had practiced landings from various altitudes in the Horsa and one thing they knew was that the time from release to landing was always shorter than the last time.

Harris gestured towards Smith.

“What’s going on Sarge?”

Smith shrugged as he lifted himself up and staggered down towards the pilots’ compartment. It took a few steps and he had to pass the sappers who waited patiently to his right. He didn’t envy these men; they always seemed to get the nastiest jobs and also ended up lugging all manner of crap around with them. Still, they had a habit of being able to get in and out of trouble with almost equal ease. Whilst hanging onto the frame he tapped one of the pilot’s shoulders to find out what was going on. The man ignored him for a moment, he was evidently too busy scanning the sky and ground ahead. Smith leaned in close so the pilot could hear him over the buffeting and noise.