Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II

by Douglas W. Jacobson

  Peracki nodded and walked away.

  Jan wandered back through the now-quiet town. Dead bodies were everywhere. Just boys, he thought. Polish and German boys, distinguishable only by the color of their soiled uniforms.

  Smashed and burning vehicles littered the streets, along with some that were completely intact, abandoned by the German troops in their frantic retreat. His men were already attending to the wounded and setting up a makeshift field hospital. A few of the townspeople had emerged from their homes, looking frightened and tentative, but joining in to help. The artillery squadron rumbled in from the meadow, the big horse-drawn howitzers maneuvering around the craters and debris.

  Jan leaned against the side of a building and removed his helmet, rubbing his eyes. Three wagons rolled past, bringing in more wounded from the meadow. The dead ones were still out there. How many of his men had he lost? He didn’t want to know.

  The pain in his head had returned and his back was sore. He closed his eyes, allowing himself the indulgence of a moment thinking about Anna. The Germans were occupying Krakow, but at least the fighting there had ended and he found some comfort in the fact that she was probably safe for the time being. For how long? That was another question. One for which he had no answer.

  A horse-drawn cart creaked past. Three wounded soldiers were sitting in the back, one of them holding a bloody cloth to his head with his left hand. When he noticed Jan, the injured boy saluted. Jan straightened up, put on his helmet and returned the salute.

  Chapter 10

  THADDEUS PIEKARSKI was only half listening to the conversation going on around him at the back table in the White Eagle Pub. He took a sip from the glass of beer that had been sitting untouched in front of him and, once again, his thoughts drifted to the frustrating, endless quandary about Anna. It had been ten days without any word of her whereabouts and now that Krakow was under German occupation the prospects of getting any information were nil.

  A fist banged the table, and Thaddeus swallowed hard, almost choking on the beer. His friend, Jozef Bujak leaned across the table and pointed a thick finger at Fryderyk Wawrzyn, a legal counsel for the city of Krakow. “The French and British will attack Germany, anyone can see that,” Bujak declared. He shot a quick glance at the others sitting around the table then lowered his voice, drawing them in. Thaddeus had seen his burly colleague in action many times. His theatrics were surpassed only by his passion. Bujak pressed on. “Hitler has made a gross miscalculation. Germany is finished. Our allies will not let him grab Poland without a fight.”

  “I think you’re dead wrong,” Wawrzyn said. “The French are sitting comfortably behind their Maginot Line, and they’re not going to stick their necks out for Poland. If they wouldn’t help the Czechs why would they help us?”

  “Christ, Fryderyk, England and France have declared war on Germany,” Bujak hissed. “Of course, they’ll attack.”

  “Oh hell, the French were coerced into that by the Brits, Jozef. You’re beginning to sound like those jackasses running our government. The Brits can’t do anything without France and the French aren’t going to attack Germany. That declaration of war was just an attempt to throw Hitler off balance. It’s hollow.”

  Bujak glared at him, took a gulp of beer and called out to the waiter to bring another round. He set the empty glass down with a thump and turned toward Thaddeus. “Thaddeus, help me out here. That friend of yours in Belgium, the one Anna lived with for awhile, what the hell’s his name?”

  “Do you mean Rene Leffard?” Thaddeus asked, looking at his friend with concern. Bujak’s fleshy cheeks had reddened as they always did when he got worked up, a result of his excessive weight and high blood pressure.

  “Yes, that’s it. If I recall, he’s pretty well connected in France and Belgium and you correspond with him. What’s his view on this?”

  Thaddeus pushed his beer glass to the side and placed both hands on the table in front of him. “Well, it certainly won’t be possible to correspond with him any longer, not until this is all over. But in his last few letters he sounded increasingly doubtful that the French would attack Germany to help out Poland.”

  “But damn it all, Thaddeus, what about—”

  Thaddeus held up his hand. “Let me finish, Jozef. Leffard thinks the political situation in France is too unstable, and I have to agree with him. The French will talk tough but, in the end, I think they’ll just sit tight and see what happens.”

  Bujak slumped back in his chair with a scowl and turned back toward Wawrzyn. “Well, Fryderyk, if we’re in this alone, what’s the city government going to do to protect its citizens now that we’re under occupation?”

  “What city government are you talking about?” Wawrzyn shot back. “It’s all under German control now. Our advice to the city officials who are still in place is to take a low profile and try and cooperate. You heard about what happened in Poznan, didn’t you?”

  Bujak shook his head.

  “The SS moved in right behind the Wehrmacht and dragged the mayor and his wife out of their home and shot them, right in their own backyard.”

  “Good God,” Thaddeus gasped.

  Bujak glanced at him and took a swig from his fresh glass of beer.

  Wawrzyn continued. “And, in Bielsko, over two thousand Jews were rounded up and hauled into a school yard. They beat them with clubs and poured boiling water over them. Some they tortured by putting hoses in their mouths and pumping water into them. Christ, this was just two days after the invasion!” Wawrzyn leaned forward and lowered his voice to a whisper. “There’s a lot more. The stories are coming into our office every day. These are not people you can bargain with. The best thing any of us can do is to try and keep out of their way, and if you get stopped or challenged, be as cooperative as you can.”

  “So, you’re telling us to act like house pets in our own city,” Bujak growled. “That’s bullshit! We need to do whatever we can to help root these bastards out.”

  “Watch yourself,” Wawrzyn said, glancing around the room. “That’s the kind of talk that’ll get you in big trouble. This is not something to take lightly. They’re in charge in Krakow now, and they mean business.”

  They were interrupted by a thin, balding man who entered the pub and rushed to their table. Thaddeus recognized him: Felek Slomak, a legal assistant to Wawrzyn. “Have you heard the news?” Slomak asked breathlessly. “A major counterattack is under way!”

  Wawrzyn shook his head and glanced at the others. “No, we haven’t heard a thing.”

  “Where is it happening?” Thaddeus asked.

  “The report on the radio said that it was near Kutno, along the Bzura River. It started sometime yesterday, and they’ve got the Germans on the run.”

  Bujak slammed his fist to the table again, this time rattling the glasses. “That’s more like it! Now, France and the Brits will get into it for sure.”

  Late the next afternoon Thaddeus stood by the window in his second floor office at Jagiellonian University’s Collegium Maius and looked out at the stone courtyard below. A young man and woman were sitting on the edge of the well in the center of the courtyard. Only a few students were on the campus since the start of the fall term was still three weeks away, and Thaddeus wondered if classes would go on as usual. He hadn’t heard otherwise, but no one knew anything for sure.

  He stepped over to his desk and stared down at the jumble of papers and books. He had work to do. He had to prepare for the seminar he would be teaching on contract law, and he hadn’t made much progress on the paper he was to present at the symposium in Amsterdam. Amsterdam in October—he shook his head at the foolish notion. It had been planned in another lifetime.

  “Are you about to leave, Thaddeus?”

  He looked up. Jozef Bujak stood in the doorway. Thaddeus glanced down at the cluttered desk again, but it was useless to pretend. He couldn’t concentrate on any of it. “Yes, I am,” he said.

  “I’ll walk with you. Perhaps we can get a drink.�
��

  They left the ancient building and headed toward the Rynek Glowny. “Did you hear about what happened earlier today, right here in Krakow?” Bujak asked.

  “You mean the family that was shot…because they wouldn’t hand over their car? Yes, I heard about it a few hours ago.”

  “They were not Jews, Thaddeus! This could have been any of us. And in Mielec—”

  Thaddeus heard the clacking sound of iron-shod hooves on cobblestone and glanced toward the street as two German soldiers astride enormous black horses rode past. They wore green uniforms with wide black belts around their waists and the eagle and swastika insignia on their sleeves. Hanging from a chain around each man’s neck was a half-moon-shaped metal badge that Thaddeus recognized from pictures he had seen.

  Bujak nudged him with his elbow. “Feldgendarmes.”

  Thaddeus nodded. The German military police. He recalled articles he had read about their actions in Czechoslovakia when they followed the Wehrmacht into occupied cities and towns to maintain order. The articles referred to them as kettenhund—chained dogs.

  They arrived at an outdoor café and sat at a small table off in a corner away from the few other patrons, each ordering a glass of beer. When the waiter left, Bujak leaned across the table. “This won’t stop with the Jews. You know that.”

  The waiter returned with their beers and left again. Thaddeus took a sip and set the glass down. “The war’s not over. I still have hope. You should too.”

  “Yes, I hope…and I pray,” Jozef said. “But what if we lose, what then?”

  “Jozef, I don’t understand. Yesterday you were certain that the French and British were coming to our rescue.”

  “Ah, you know how I get when I’m around Wawrzyn. Maybe they will, maybe they won’t—who can tell? If they don’t, I think we’re in big trouble.” Bujak took a gulp of beer and looked around at the other tables. He leaned forward and whispered, “I’ve heard talk of a Resistance developing.”

  “Heard talk? Or, started talk, Jozef?”

  “What’s the difference? There’s talk. It’s starting.”

  Thaddeus stared at him for a long moment then picked up his glass and took a drink.

  “It’s very quiet,” Bujak continued. “But it’s starting.”

  Thaddeus set his glass on the table. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because you need to know.”

  Thaddeus wrapped both hands around the beer glass and stared down at the table. “This is very dangerous.”

  “Can we count on you—when the time comes?”

  Thaddeus’s head jerked up. He glared at Bujak. “This is very premature, Jozef. We haven’t lost the war yet. You said it yourself. The Allies could still come in and—”

  Bujak reached across the table and gripped his arm. “When the time comes, Thaddeus. Can we count on you?”

  Thaddeus leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Good God, he thought, where was this heading? He hadn’t seen Anna in almost two weeks and he had no idea if she was even alive. Jan was out there somewhere fighting the Germans. And now this. He knew what it meant. Once he started down this track, there would be no getting off. He finished his beer and stood up, looking into his friend’s eyes. “Yes, Jozef—when the time comes.”

  Chapter 11

  THE TWENTY-NINTH UHLANS had been moving fast. For two days following the debacle at Walewice Jan led the regiment in relentless pursuit of the retreating Wehrmacht infantry, outflanking them at every turn and inflicting heavy casualties. When the enemy sought refuge in the marshes, the cavalry troopers drove them out. When they hid in barns, they kicked in the doors. They had the enemy on the run.

  But it didn’t last. The German commanders recovered from the surprise of the counterattack and regrouped. They brought in reinforcements and moved their artillery units to the outskirts of Glowno.

  Early on the third day, the Twenty-ninth Uhlans joined the rest of the Wielkopolska Brigade trying to force their way into the city. But the reinforced German 210th repelled every thrust. For twenty-four hours it was a standoff.

  Then the panzer units moved in.

  Lying in the grass at the top of a small hill, Jan adjusted the binoculars, focusing on the line of German tanks that seemed to stretch all the way to the horizon. He scanned slowly, left to right, trying to get a count, difficult because of all the dust they were kicking up. They were spreading out into attack formation. He shoved the binoculars back into the leather case and slid down the hill. It wouldn’t be long now.

  He paced along the perimeter of the regiment for a last-minute check. The Bofors anti-tank guns were set, the horses had been moved to the rear and the riflemen were in position. They were as ready as they could be—if the Bofors guns had the range to actually do some good.

  Jan crawled back to the top of the knoll, pulled out the binoculars and swept the horizon again. The tanks were closing in, engines growling, steel tracks clanking and squeaking. Through the cloud of dust he spotted German infantry troops plodding along between the rows of tanks.

  A flash of light caught his eye, and he squeezed the binoculars. Another flash, then a dozen more burst from the line of advancing tanks. Thunderclaps of cannon fire echoed across the flat plain, and a mountain of dirt flew across his field of vision. They were out of time.

  He turned and shouted at Peracki, “Commence firing!”

  The Bofors guns erupted with a deafening noise, and Jan struggled to hold the binoculars steady, following the tracer smoke. The shells were falling short. The gunners fired a second salvo, and a tank burst into flames, black smoke spewing out of the open hatch. A second tank was hit and shuddered to a halt.

  But the line of clanking machines continued to advance, maneuvering around the wrecks, strafing the regiment’s lines with cannon fire and machine guns.

  There were too many of them. They were moving too fast.

  Jan scrambled down the hill, shouting at the squadron commanders and gun crews, “Fall back! Fall back!”

  It didn’t help. The tanks closed in before they could set up, and the fusillade of incoming fire escalated into a torrent of paralyzing noise and blinding flashes. Polish troopers bolted for cover.

  Jan crouched behind one of the gun crews, screaming at them to hold their position, when a messenger on horseback charged up from the rear, dismounted and ran over to him, shouting in his ear, “Fall back! To the Stanislawow Woods! The brigade is regrouping—”

  A thunderous BOOM!

  A shower of dirt and rocks!

  Darkness.

  Nothing.

  Then…deep in his brain…a ringing noise…and a smell…acrid, foul.

  Jan blinked and rolled over, his head pounding. He staggered to his feet and stared at the crater. Barely visible under the rocks and smoking pieces of twisted metal were the remains of the gun crew. He stepped back and stumbled over the messenger crawling on his hands and knees. Grabbing the terrified boy under the arm, he jerked him to his feet and shoved him after the horse that had bolted away.

  Jan wiped the dirt from his face and ground his boots into the sandy soil, struggling to keep his balance. Through the smoke and haze, he spotted Stefan running toward him and waved him off. “Forget the Bofors!” Jan shouted. “Get the men back to the horses!”

  In the Stanislawow Woods, halfway between Glowno and Walewice, Jan and the rest of the brigade’s remaining officers crowded around a wagon in the middle of a stand of scraggly pine trees. General Abraham stood in front of the wagon, his uniform rumpled and soiled, his face streaked with dirt. When he spoke his tone was clipped and short. “Gentlemen, we’re calling off the assault on Glowno. The situation farther north is deteriorating. Within the last hour we’ve learned that the German Fourth Panzer Division is moving toward Brochow.”

  A staff officer unrolled a map on the bed of the wagon and pointed to Brochow, forty kilometers to the northeast.

  The general continued. “If the Germans take the bridge over the Bzur
a River at Brochow, the Poznan Army’s entire northern flank will be exposed and the counterattack is finished.” He stepped back and nodded at Colonel Romanofski.

  “The brigade has been ordered to pull out of here and get up to Brochow,” Romanofski said. “Our mission is to secure that bridge before the Fourth Panzer Division gets there. Get your units together and brief them. Bugle call to saddle up is in thirty minutes. Dismissed.”

  The Wielkopolska Brigade’s remaining cavalrymen charged out of the Stanislawow Woods, heading northeast through the rural countryside toward Brochow. The main road followed the path of the Bzura River in an east–west direction to Lowicz then north to Brochow. But there was no time for the easy route. With red and white banners flying, the brigade galloped in a straight line over flat, open fields and farms. They charged through tiny hamlets, sending villagers scurrying to get out of the way.

  Darkness was falling as the brigade approached Brochow from the west side of the river. The Twenty-ninth Uhlans were the first to arrive, and Jan led the regiment thundering across the bridge. The town was set back half a kilometer from the river with flat, open terrain in between. In the gathering gloom, he could just barely see the outline of houses and buildings.

  He didn’t spot the tanks until they opened fire.

  Jan jerked his horse’s reins and led the galloping regiment in a wide arc to the north hoping to outflank the tanks.

  A second panzer unit emerged from the town, cutting them off.

  From two directions the tanks closed in, driving the Uhlans toward the river. In another few minutes they’d be trapped. Cursing their bad luck, Jan shouted at the bugler, “Sound the retreat!” and turned his horse toward the bridge.

  The Uhlans charged back across the bridge, dismounted and raced along the riverbank lugging machine guns and handheld anti-tank guns. As the brigade’s other regiments arrived they dismounted, spreading out to back up the Uhlans.