War Girls Complete Collection Chapter 158

Chapter 13

P

eter had spent the past few days in a constant cycle of fear and euphoria. Since the Germans hadn’t suspected any kind of organized resistance, they’d been utterly unprepared, and the Home Army captured significant areas of the city. By the end of day two, gas, electricity and water were securely in Polish hands.

The Germans concentrated their forces on defending military installations and important communication infrastructure like the telephone exchange, the central train station and the airport.

“We have to build barricades against their tanks,” Peter ordered his men late at night.

“But how?” someone asked and gestured to the scene of destruction on the streets in the Wola district.

“The tramcars,” a young blond boy suggested and pointed his finger down the street.

Peter glanced in the direction and saw an abandoned tram standing on the tracks, half of the tramcars derailed. “It’s worth a try,” he said.

With twenty men they managed to put the derailed cars upright and pushed them along the tracks past the next crossing.

“Here. Put two tramcars at a right angle to the street and push the other ones further down around the corner.” It was tough work and despite the light evening breeze, sweat poured down Peter’s back. Soon enough other units followed their example and by nightfall they’d managed to build an intricate network of street barricades, preventing the Germans from having easy access despite their Panzers.

While the German garrison seemed to be on a par with the Home Army in numbers of soldiers, it was greatly superior in arms, tanks and ammunition. Peter always had to remind his men not to shoot if it wasn’t absolutely necessary, or they’d run out of ammunition before the fighting ended.

That night, they retreated into the upper floors of a nearby building, getting some much-needed sleep. Peter placed guards at the entrance and the windows, but he needn’t have worried. The Germans, who loathed night-fighting, seemed to have gone to sleep as well.

The next morning, a young boy with the red and white armband passed the manned barricade, bringing them copies of the first issue of the

Biuletyn Informacyjny,

the Information Bulletin newspaper. It contained four pages with the most important news and was distributed free of charge by a network of messengers – boys too young to be allowed to fight.

Later that day Peter received orders to move his battalion further south to capture a large Waffen-SS warehouse with food and military uniforms. He grinned at the command. Food wasn’t an issue, but his men would love to get their hands on real uniforms. Most of them still wore civilian clothes, some even shorts and sandals, as the mobilization had surprised them while out and about.

The SS had abandoned the warehouse as Peter’s battalion reached it, leaving only one of their comrades behind, who’d barricaded himself inside the building. It didn’t take long until the young SS trooper was shot, and Peter’s men raided the warehouse.

Half an hour later, Peter inspected his troops and chuckled. Everyone wore proper boots, helmets and leopard-spotted camouflage smocks, called

panterka

, graciously provided by the Waffen-SS. They weren’t in accordance with the rules of war, but how could he deny his men the pleasure of wearing a uniform, and one of the most coveted modern camouflage tunics on top?

He sent a messenger to headquarters about the capture of food and ammunition and secured the weapon of the dead SS man.

“Who knows how to fire a Schmeisser?” he asked his men.

One boy stepped forward. “I do.”

Peter had his doubts whether the boy had actually fired a gun before, but he still handed it over. “Take good care and only fire in short bursts when absolutely necessary.”

The boy nodded with a self-important expression on his face, and Peter mentally counted his men and the arms he had for them. Fifty-seven fighters and seven firearms. He’d prefer to find weapons over uniforms any day.

“We’ll take a break. Eat and rest.” He gave his men orders, organized guards and took two of the more experienced soldiers outside. From the direction of the river they heard the explosion of mortar bombs and heavy machine guns.

“Probably the Red Army on the other bank. When will they cross?” a man called Radwan said.

“Soon, I hope.” Peter had no idea what was delaying the Red Army. They’d been camping on the other side of the Vistula for almost a week. Why didn’t those damn Russians just cross and relieve the Polish resistance?

“There’s bad news from the Zoliborz area,” the other man, called Niedzi, said. A courier had brought news of the Zoliborz battalion running into truckloads of SS troopers and several Panzers, coming to the aid of their Luftwaffe friends, who’d been caught unawares by the insurgents. After suffering severe casualties about half of the battalion had managed to escape into the nearby forest.

“At least they can replenish their ammo with the partisans out there,” Radwan said.

“Why don’t the British drop supplies for us?” Niedzi asked.

Peter had asked himself the same question. “I guess they do, just not inside the city, because the probability of dropping into the German area is too great.”

The battalion returned to their position of the previous night and occupied the upper floors of one of the buildings. In the late afternoon someone shouted an alarm as a bunch of Wehrmacht soldiers stormed the barricades. Heavy fighting ensued, and Peter’s unit had to retreat into one of the buildings.

Years ago, the Germans had required holes be drilled into the basement walls to interlink the houses for easier access. This proved now to be very useful as the Poles escaped through the basements into an empty building, where they moved to the upper floors and positioned guards at the staircase. Soon enough they heard heavy footsteps and shots. Peter motioned for everyone to be quiet.

“

Hände hoch, Banditen!”

That was the order to put up their hands and surrender. Nobody moved, because they knew all too well what happened to captured

Banditen.

About a minute later the Germans shot with their Schmeissers, hoping to penetrate the floorboards of the upper rooms. The heavy footsteps roamed about and finally became more distant.

“They’re gone,” someone whispered.

“I’ll check.” Peter took two of his armed men downstairs and searched the building. Empty. He leaned against the doorjamb for a moment, pondering whether they should stay here for the night or not, when someone barreled into him from behind.

Peter tumbled to the ground, as a burly Wehrmacht soldier wrestled the weapon from his hand and came to sit astride him, pointing the muzzle of the handgun directly at his head. Peter was sure he’d seen his last day on this earth when the report of a gun being discharged echoed in his ears and the German fell sideways, a gaping hole in his forehead.

He scrambled to his feet to see a very pale boy crouched in the doorway, slightly trembling, but holding his newly acquired Schmeisser at the ready to fire again if needed.

“Nice shot, thank you,” Peter said, picking up his own gun from the floor and securing the German’s weapon as booty to arm yet another one of his men. “Let’s finish clearing the building.”

They scared the returning enemy soldiers away by lobbing self-made grenades at them and then gathered upstairs with the rest of their unit to eat some of the rations they’d taken from the raided warehouse.

Everyone else was already asleep when Peter checked on the guards again. Communications had been almost nonexistent, and he was in dire need of new orders. The next morning he’d have to go to headquarters himself to find out about the bigger picture.

But it took almost two days before the skirmishes with the enemy finally allowed him to leave his position and make his way to Bór’s headquarters. A few of the officers, including Marek, were discussing the overall situation when he entered the room. Marek greeted him with an ice-cold stare but kept his usual animosities to himself.

“The majority of the city is now in our hands, and the Germans have retreated into their bunker-like strategic buildings, waiting for reinforcements,” Colonel Mituk said.

“What the hell are the Russians waiting for? We need them to attack before the German reinforcements arrive.” Marek’s words only echoed everyone’s thoughts. Hadn’t Radio Moscow promised to fight side-by-side with the Poles in case of an uprising?

“They stall,” another colonel with the codename Romek said and spat on the ground. “Who knows what Stalin is planning? He’s not one whit better than Hitler. Have you all forgotten what

he

did to Poland? How come he’s now supposed to be our savior?”

“Because he’s the ally of our allies. He won’t dare occupy our country again. The British will see to it,” Mituk answered.

“The British? What have they done so far? Nothing,” Marek said.

“Yes, they should fly in the Polish parachute brigade. That’s the least the Brits can do!” Romek raised his fist. “It’s about time someone came to our aid.”

“We need to hold out a bit longer. I’m sure help is on its way.” Peter tried to calm tempers all round. There was nothing they could do about Stalin’s or Churchill’s unwillingness to pitch in on what might prove a crucial battle to end Hitler’s reign. For the moment it looked like they were on their own, but they wouldn’t be Poles if they shied away from a hopeless fight. They would persevere.

“Antek is right,” Mituk said, referring to Peter by his nom de guerre. “There are two things we need to do right now: hold onto the ground we have gained, and secure the bridgeheads and the airport for us.” He continued to explain troop tactics and how he planned to take the strategic infrastructure from the Germans. Unfortunately, the moment of surprise had long passed and to aggravate the situation further, the Soviet air force had abandoned the skies over Warsaw to the Luftwaffe and her feared shrieking Stukas.

“We need better communications,” Peter said.

“Yes, I have thought about this and asked Romek to install a network of messengers,” Mituk answered.

“Messengers?”

Romek stepped forward. “I have a pool of volunteers from the Grey Ranks, Boy Scouts that know every corner of the capital. They’re small enough to squeeze through the barricades and can hope for mercy, should they fall into enemy hands.”

“Surely, there must be some other option?” Peter murmured. The Boy Scouts were about the age of his own late son, ten to twelve years old. Were the resistance fighters really desperate enough to resort to children for their communications?

Looking into the grey and tired faces of the commanding officers, the answer seemed to be yes.