War Girls Complete Collection Chapter 212

Chapter 26: Peter

P

eter picked his feet up and put them down again, taking one step after another automatically, without wasting energy for anything except the movement of his legs. Every step sent a low burn through his soles, the raw pain moving up his calves, building, burning stronger as it swept up his thighs. His hips ached and tingled with an intense agony he hadn’t known existed. Every nerve ending shot pain into every last inch of his tormented body as he trudged forward – one step at a time.

His big toe bumped against the confinement of the too-small felt boots and he wished it would puncture a hole in them, despite the freezing cold temperatures. He didn’t know which was worse, frostbitten toes or swollen, glowing toes.

On January 21, a mere nine days after his arrival in Gross Born, the Nazis had forced him onto the move again, this time on foot. They evacuated the entire camp, except for the men who couldn’t walk. Five thousand miserable souls on a death march. Peter had no idea where they were headed; the only thing he knew for sure was the direction. Due west.

“Isn’t it ironic? We’re walking back to where we came from just a week ago,” Bartosz groaned.

“Hmm.” Peter didn’t want to waste energy on talking. Food was almost non-existent and they’d been on the move for eight days without pause. Walking from sunrise to sundown, huddling together in ditches from sundown to sunrise.

Walk. Sleep. Walk. Sleep.

His entire life had been reduced to the movement of setting one foot in front of the other. In the distance he heard artillery fire. No doubt the Russians approaching. They passed deserted villages, and sometimes stopped to sleep in the forsaken buildings or to rummage for food. Rarely were they successful. The only thing in abundance was snow to melt and quench their thirst.

Columns of civilians passed them, fleeing with all the belongings they could carry. Some had handcarts, horse-drawn carriages, bicycles and even prams, but most of them walked. They looked almost as miserable as the prisoners. The only difference that they weren’t beaten or shot, and looked comparatively well-fed.

Peter didn’t envy them, but he would have traded places with every single one of the refugees without a second thought. During the first days of the march, when he’d still had enough energy to think, he’d wondered whether those left in the camp had been dealt the better cards. Being liberated by the detested Russians suddenly didn’t seem as bad. Even a shot in the back of the head held a certain allure.

Some of his comrades went for just that. They fell out of step, using their last ounce of strength to run a few steps away from the column.

“

Stop! Anhalten!”

the guards would yell, but the desperate prisoner continued on, surely awaiting his quick end. A shot would be discharged with heartless cruelty, a bullet would whizz through the air, and the man would fall. Swiftly and without a sound, soaking the immaculate white snow with red blood.

Only thoughts of Anna and Janusz prevented Peter from doing the same. And his friend Bartosz by his side. The proverb of shared sorrow definitely held a lot of truth. With Bartosz he shared what little food they found, murmured rallying cries to hold out, and huddled together at night against the bone-chilling cold. Every morning, some comrades had turned into icicles, frozen to the ground, as their emaciated bodies had nothing left to resist the brutal winter nights.

“

Aufstehen! Los!”

the guards yelled every morning, counting the dead and the living to make sure the numbers added up. No prisoner was allowed to slip through the cracks and be left behind. But this morning they were three prisoners short. They counted again. And again. Same result.

The guard in charge pursed his lips in an annoyed expression and ordered his men to set up three machine guns at the perimeter. Then he shouted, “If you care anything about your comrades, come out now or I will give the order to fire!”

Peter felt an icy hand grab his heart, effectively paralyzing him, while his mind rushed with a million thoughts. He stared into the cold muzzle of the mounted machine guns wishing he could kiss Anna one last time. Hold his son again and tell him how much he loved him. How would the two of them cope when they found out? If they ever found out…Or would he be yet another missing soul never to be found again, buried in a mass grave for the unknown soldier?

Cold seeped into his bones and he glanced to his side, seeing the same fatalism in Bartosz’s eyes. In the complete silence he heard the nerve-racking sound of the machines guns being charged. Peter stood helpless, his hands hanging by his side, hoping and praying that the missing three would give up and save their comrades’ lives.

The seconds trickled by when finally the heavenly sound of a Polish voice came across the field in a thick accent, “Hold your fire. We are coming out.”

Relief washed over Peter’s limbs as he realized he wouldn’t be a hapless soul caught in the crossfire. He stared at the three escapees, sure that, right then and there, the mob would have dealt with them, if the Germans hadn’t frog-marched them away.

“What gall,” Bartosz whispered. Everyone knew that reprisals were harsh for attempts to escape.

“Gall or desperation.”

“

Schnell!

” The guards used their rifle butts with abandon on anyone not falling into step with the column fast enough.

With every aching step Peter fought the urge to give up, to slide down into the cold snow and never open his eyes again. But the thought of Anna propelled him forward. With each step westward he reduced the distance between them. If he survived this deathly march through ice and wind, if he survived long enough for the Allies East or West to reach his position, he might see her again.

For many reasons he preferred to be liberated by the Western Allies, but right now he’d welcome Stalin’s army with open arms if only they’d put an end to his ordeal. The war was about to end. That much was for sure. He just had to hang on for a little bit more.

One step at a time.

After two weeks they crossed the Oder River and marched on. The endless cold, snow and ice took its toll on everyone, even on the guards. Tempers were short, desperation rampant.

The prisoner column dwindled by the day, but each morning they were forced on the march again. Many times Peter thought it wasn’t humanly possible to continue walking, but each time he gathered his inner strength around him like a cloak and proved himself wrong.

“Ouch!” Bartosz yelled and fell to the ground.

“Get up,” Peter rushed to his side, shoving and pushing to get his friend upright again.

“I…can’t…I…” Bartosz pressed out between gritted teeth.

“You have to!”

Bartosz did his best, but the pained groan he released when putting weight on his ankle indicated it was severely twisted or even broken.

“Here, lean on me,” Peter said, putting Bartosz’s arm around his own shoulders. Even though his friend was nothing more than a bag of bones, the additional burden weighed down heavily on Peter, who looked like a skeleton himself.

The men in front of them and in back of them closed up their ranks to hide the fact that Peter was helping Bartosz continue to walk. That night, Peter packed snow around Bartosz’s swollen ankle, which had taken on a nasty black and green color.

From a superficial examination it didn’t seem to be broken, but Peter was no doctor and neither was any other prisoner. Peter touched the hot skin in the most delicate way possible, and yet Bartosz winced in pain.

“You’ll see, it’ll be better in the morning,” Peter said, not really believing his own words.

The next morning Bartosz’s ankle had doubled in size. “I don’t know how I can walk all day.”

“We’ll make a splint to stabilize it,” Peter suggested and some other comrades started looking for sticks beneath the snow. Somehow they managed to make a splint from sturdy sticks, wrapping them up with strips of material torn from the bottom of Peter’s shirt.

Bartosz grimaced in agony with every step, but at least he could get up and walk again. They got into the head of the formation right away to allow them to slowly slink to the back throughout the day and thus keep up with the rest.

Snow had fallen most of the night and the path turned slick as the temperature continued to drop. They came to a slight decline, where Bartosz slipped, taking Peter and several others tumbling to the ground.

Before Peter could assess what exactly had happened, one of the guards surged to their side, rifle pointing at them, “

Aufstehen. Schnell.”

Prisoners scrambled to their feet, the guard shoving them forward with rifle thumps at their backs. Peter went on all fours and was trying to help Bartosz up when he sensed cold metal in his neck.

Every tiny hair on his body stood on end as he listened to the guard’s voice saying, “Get up. Now.”

His heart shattered into a thousand pieces as he raised his hands and stood, sending his friend an apologetic glance, whispering, “Forgive me.”

Neither Peter nor Bartosz had any illusions about what would happen. They’d seen it more times than they cared to remember.

“Move.” A hard push between his shoulder blades almost sent Peter tumbling to the ground, but he managed to put a foot forward and start walking, closing up with the moving file.

“Now you.” Peter heard the guard yell at Bartosz, but he kept his eyes trained forward, not wanting to see or know.

A scream of anguish tore through the crystal-clear air as Bartosz tried to get up, followed by a dull thump. A shot rang out, echoing through Peter’s head. He swirled around, ready to lunge at the guard and rip the heart from his chest, but two comrades held his arms.

“Don’t be dumb. Your friend’s dead.”

As the truth of the words pierced his soul, a wave of helplessness flowed over him. There was nothing he could do. The fight seeped from his body and he became limp, automatically following the commands of his comrades to keep walking.

Bartosz was dead and nobody seemed to care.

Blazing hatred fueled his steps, the yearning to survive and avenge Bartosz’s death bubbling up like a cauldron of rage. He’d make them pay. Every last damn Nazi would pay for this.