Read Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II Online
Authors: Douglas W. Jacobson
Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II (8 page)
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road Jan could make out the silhouettes of hundreds of horses wandering about, grazing in the wet grass. The groomers moved among them for a last check of horseshoes and harnesses. For all of them, man and beast alike, it was likely the last peaceful moment they would have.
“You have any of those left?” Stefan’s voice startled him. He hadn’t noticed him walking down the road.
Jan pulled the pack from his pocket and handed it to him. “Keep ’em.
They’re not very good.”
Stefan nodded and lit one of the limp, hand-rolled cigarettes.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Jan asked.
Stefan blew a cloud of smoke in the air and shook his head. “I haven’t slept much at all since we heard about Krakow.”
Jan looked down at his scruffy boots. They’d gotten the word about Krakow two days earlier. “Well, at least there won’t be any fi ghting there. We can be thankful they’re not getting bombarded like the poor devils in Warsaw or Lodz.”
“Yeah, that’s true. But they’re sitting in a city controlled by fuckin’ Nazis.
Irene must be—”
Jan took a step closer to his friend. “Look, don’t dwell on that. There’s nothing we can do about it except to try and get out of this mess alive and get home.”
“You know what they think of Jews, Jan.”
Stefan had reason for worry. They had all heard about Jews in Germany losing their jobs, Jewish children being expelled from the schools, and syna-gogues being vandalized in Munich and Nuremberg. But Jan needed Stefan to stay focused on the mission. “The Allies will be jumping into this any day, Stefan. They’ll force some kind of settlement. We’ve just got to hang on.”
Stefan took a breath to speak then looked over Jan’s shoulder and stopped.
Jan turned and stubbed out his cigarette as Colonel Romanofski approached along with two other offi cers. Jan and Stefan joined them and headed for the brigade offi cers’ briefi ng.
“Any news from Warsaw?” Jan asked.
“Latest news from the runners is that it’s bad,” Romanofski said. “Water towers are all blown to hell, and the rail yards are gone. Communications are down, and there are fi res everywhere—hundreds of casualties. And that’s as of yesterday afternoon. It’s probably a lot worse by now.”
Jan glanced at Stefan and shook his head. That last comment said as much about their situation as anything. The Polish army still relied almost entirely on 42
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messengers or civilian telephones for communications, and one of the fi rst objectives of the Luftwaffe had been the destruction of the telephone lines. Now, with tens of thousands of terrifi ed civilians fl eeing their towns and choking the roads in every direction, communications were in chaos.
As Jan and the other offi cers fi led into the headquarters tent, the brigade commander, General Roman Abraham, stood behind a table at the front. He was a tall, severe-looking man with thin gray hair and icy blue eyes. His fi eld offi cer’s uniform was immaculate: crisply pressed khaki coat with leather belt descending across his chest, and brown leather knee-height boots.
When they were assembled, the general began speaking. His voice was quiet, his tone somber. “Gentlemen, we have received our fi nal orders to launch the counterattack. All other Polish forces have been ordered to fall back to the Vistula River for the defense of Warsaw.” He paused and looked over the silent group, his countenance stark and forbidding in the fl ickering light of the kerosene lanterns. “The situation is serious. The northern and southern army groups are under constant artillery bombardment and are being harassed by air strikes. They are in danger of being surrounded. To make matters worse, the roads are clogged with refugees. It’s doubtful they’ll get to Warsaw in time.”
He paused again, staring straight ahead. “Our counterattack from the rear represents the only chance of slowing down the enemy’s drive toward Warsaw.”
He glanced at one of the staff offi cers, who rolled out a map. The offi cers closed in around the table. The general pointed to a spot on the map and continued. “The Poznan Army has halted here, just outside the railroad junction at Kutno. At dawn, their infantry divisions will strike along the Bzura River valley and attack the northern fl ank of the German Eighth Army.”
The general stepped aside, and Colonel Romanofski moved forward as the staff offi cer unrolled a second, more detailed map of the area. “Glowno is critical to the success of our counterattack,” the stocky colonel said, jabbing at a spot on the map twenty kilometers south of the Bzura River. “It is being held by the enemy’s 210th infantry division. At all costs, the 210th division has to be contained and prevented from coming to the aid of the rest of the German Eighth Army. The job of crossing the Bzura and taking them out of action has been assigned to us.”
Romanofski glared at each of the offi cers then bent over the map again. Jan edged in closer, studying the map, as the colonel continued. “The road from the Bzura River to Glowno passes through this village, Walewice.” The colonel Night of Flames
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looked up, locking eyes with Jan. “Major Kopernik will lead the Twenty-ninth Uhlans into Walewice and secure it to block any escape of the Germans from Glowno.” Romanofski turned to a reconnaissance offi cer who was standing off to the side. “Kruzak, what do we know about Walewice?”
Kruzak coughed and produced a tattered notebook. “Our scouts have spotted a small contingent of German troops in the town. They’ve also gotten information from a few of the local farmers. No machine guns or artillery have been reported. We estimate it’s just a small unit—two or three rifl e platoons, probably not even on alert.”
“How old is this information?” Jan asked.
“Most of it is from late yesterday morning, twelve to fi fteen hours ago,”
Kruzak said.
“OK, that’s the situation,” Romanofski declared. “Jan, it sounds like these guys in Walewice are just sittin’ on their asses. Take the Twenty-ninth in there and secure it before they can radio any alarms. You’ll have surprise and darkness on your side so go in hard and fast. When you’ve got it secured, leave one squadron behind and head down the road to Glowno to cut off any Krauts trying to head north.”
Romanofski turned to the other four regimental offi cers. “The rest of the brigade will launch the main assault on Glowno.”
Jan only half listened. He wondered about twelve-hour-old scouting reports. Then put them out of his mind. They were all the information he was going to get.
When the briefi ng ended, Jan headed for the Twenty-ninth Uhlans’ staging area. Kapitan Lech Peracki, one of his squadron commanders, came up alongside him. “Shit, Jan, it sounds like we’re going to miss all the action.”
Jan glanced at the younger man. He was a good offi cer, perhaps a bit eager, but fearless in battle and completely dependable. “There’re plenty of Germans out there, Lech. We’ll get our chance.”
“I hope so,” Peracki said, with a grin. “We’ve chased the bastards halfway across the country.”
Jan watched as Peracki moved on, and thought about the exchange. He understood Peracki’s disappointment at not being part of the main assault on Glowno. Yet, his own reaction had been concern over the scouting reports on Walewice. The cavalry meant everything to him, it always had. This was their big moment. What the hell was wrong with him?
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Douglas W. Jacobson
• • •
“thumbs-up.”
At the front of the brigade Colonel Romanofski raised his saber. The buglers sounded the call to move out, and twenty-four thousand hooves pounded toward the Bzura valley. Jan leaned forward in the saddle, settling into the rhythm of the powerful horse. Invigorated by the rush of crisp night air, his anxiety about Anna faded, his fears of what lay ahead displaced by the sheer exhilaration of the moment.
The ground shook beneath the galloping horses as the brigade entered the fl at plains of the valley and separated into attack formations. The night was clear, the ground dry and hard having easily absorbed the short evening rain, and they made good time. The Twenty-ninth Uhlans arrived at their fi nal attack point just before 0300.
When Jan sighted the Bzura River, he brought the regiment to a halt. The map of the area and the tactical plan were etched in his mind. The Bzura River ran east–west at this point. On the other side, less than two kilometers farther south, was the village of Walewice. The terrain between the Bzura and Walewice was fl at and open. Another river, the Mroga, fl owed north into the Bzura and would be on their left as they headed into the village. The Mroga River formed the eastern boundary of Walewice, and the road from Glowno passed over a bridge at the edge of the village.
With his horse prancing nervously, Jan turned and shouted to the squadron commanders. “The village is about two kilometers south of the river. We’ll split up here and ford the river. On my signal, we go in at full gallop right to the edge of the town before dismounting. Stefan, First Squadron will go in on the left fl ank, along the Mroga and directly to the bridge. Bartkowicz, you’re leading Second Squadron with me up the middle, straight into the town. Peracki, Third Squadron will cover fl ank on the right. We’ll be going in fast so be alert. We’ll have surprise on our side but stay sharp. If it’s wearing a uniform . . . kill it!
Chapter 7
Unteroffi
zier Konrad Schmidt was miserable. It had been another long day in the sweltering heat, choking on dust from the rutted dirt roads. He had thought that riding in the back of the truck with the machine guns and ammo boxes was better than walking, but now he wasn’t so sure. The ride was bone-jarring, and the damn machine guns took up so much space that none of them had any room to stretch their legs. He was squeezed into a narrow space between the side of the truck and a stack of ammo boxes, and he began to wonder if he’d ever be able to stand up straight again.
He felt someone kick his foot and looked over at Willy who pointed toward the sky. Schmidt gripped the metal railing and squinted in the bright sunlight as a vast formation of Luftwaffe bombers roared overhead. They were heading east, toward Warsaw. At least that’s what they were told, though it seemed to him there were plenty of other targets. During the last seven days, the battalion had passed through dozens of small towns that were practically leveled.
Dead animals and human corpses were strewn about like so much litter among smashed and burning buildings.
To Schmidt, it seemed completely random. Many of the communities the battalion rumbled through were undamaged and, except for the lack of people on the streets, looked similar to the rural villages he was used to back home in Germany. They passed farmers working in their fi elds, then, farther down the road, wrecked wagons and dead bodies would be lying in a ditch.
Schmidt had been terrifi ed the day they crossed the border into Poland. It was his nineteenth birthday, and he was convinced he’d never see his twen-tieth. He had tried to imagine what it would be like to be in a battle, what it would sound like and how he would respond. He imagined all sorts of things, 46
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but nothing had prepared him for what he witnessed in some of these shattered villages. At fi rst he could hardly look at the dead bodies, and when the wind was coming from the wrong direction, the stench of rotting fl esh was overpowering. But with each day his senses had dulled, and now he barely noticed.
One thing Schmidt had not seen during these last seven days was action.
The offi cers had told them they would meet Poland’s Poznan Army on the fi rst day, but that didn’t happen, nor had it happened on any day since then. At the beginning, they had been on high alert. Everyone was anxious, and the offi cers barked a steady stream of orders. But, day after day, they continued to move east, and the enemy was nowhere in sight. It seemed like nothing was going to happen until they got to Warsaw.
Early that morning, a rumor fi ltered through the battalion that they had received new orders. They were heading to a place called Glowno to join the 210th Infantry Division garrisoned there. Schmidt had no idea where Glowno was or, for that matter, where any of these damn places were. Shit, no one he knew could even pronounce the names.
It was growing dark when they stopped in yet another shabby village with an unpronounceable name. This time the stop was longer. Schmidt leaned over the side of the truck, watching a group of offi cers engaged in an animated conversation with two old men who had been sitting on a bench in the village square when the battalion thundered in.
The conversation dragged on, and gradually soldiers began climbing out of the trucks and off the wagons. With considerable effort, Schmidt extricated himself from the corner of the truck and jumped down. Moving his head from side to side to work the kink out of his neck, he walked over to the small grassy area in the village square to take a piss.
He had just fi nished when Oberleutnant Kluge shouted at him, “Schmidt!
Komm!
Round up your gun crew and get your asses back on the truck. We’re heading out.
Mach schnell!
”
Schmidt started to complain but caught himself in time. Kluge was not someone who took any shit from the troops. He motioned to Willy, his ammo tender, and trudged back to the truck.
“Where the hell are we going now?” Willy griped. “We just got here for Christ’s sake.”
“Damned if I know,” Schmidt said. “I didn’t ask any questions.”
Night of Flames
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Buchwald, the truck driver, had stubbed out his cigarette and was climbing into the cab.