Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II by Douglas W. Jacobson Page A
Authors: Douglas W. Jacobson
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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
Douglas W. Jacobson
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
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
Douglas W. Jacobson
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
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