Then, as he began a slow prancing turn, the stallion abruptly reared. Startled, Kaz slipped back over the saddle; he instinctively slid his toes out of the stirrups as he fell heavily to earth. His back stabbed with pain... or maybe that was just humiliation. For a cavalry officer to lose his mount was unthinkable. As he lay there, momentarily stunned, he glanced over his brow to see Tiber galloping toward the stables.
Then he realized why. First came a slight whine, scarcely audible over the twittering songbirds, then quickly becoming louder. Between the billowing clouds, a dark, gull-winged plane was in a steep dive. Just as its scream became unbearable, it dropped a large bomb, flanked by four much smaller bombs. The large bomb struck the center of the main barracks; a jumble of splinters and smoke erupted.
As the dawn's sun glinted on the side of the plane, Jankowski could see the dark cross and swastika of Hitler's air force.
World War II had begun.
Kaz headed toward the burning buildings, alternately hopping and limping, occasionally pausing to rub his left leg, trying to work out the numbness. Soon, he was inside the camp. Soldiers were wandering about, dazed. Half a dozen men lay near the flagpole. A medic bent over one, cutting away the bloodstained clothing to expose a massive abdominal wound. Slightly beyond, Lt. Tomczak was applying a tourniquet, struggling to stem the gush of blood from the leg of an ashen-faced sergeant. Still further on, another man was obviously in pain; he kept raising his left leg, then letting it flop to the ground, perhaps a signal that he was still alive.
Kaz was about to go to the medic's aid when he stood up; his man was gone. He didn't wait to fold the dead man's guts back into his body; he quickly moved on to the man with the flopping leg. Kaz went over to Lt. Janusz Tomczak.
“There are more wounded?”
“A few, over by the mess hall.” Jan nodded in the general direction. “But you can't be of much assistance. Several medics are already there.”
Kaz surveyed the compound, and was astonished how few men he saw. “This is all?... It's all? The others were all killed?”
“No, no.” Jan was struggling with the tourniquet. “We were lucky.” He half smiled—it was so out of place to talk of good fortune as blood oozed between his fingers. “We were forming up for morning exercises when we got the news: Germans were invading. Almost everybody pulled out before the bomber attack.”
A second medic arrived, relieving Jan, and soon stopped the sergeant's bleeding. He retrieved a curved needle, tweezers, and thread from his medical bag. As he squinted through his glasses to thread the needle, he reminded Kaz of his grandmother. Methodically, and without expression, he began to sew up the sergeant's leg.
“Pulled out?” Kaz asked. “Where?”
Jan was now standing and looking directly at his friend. “The bluff, two kilometers north. With a commanding view of the valley. A likely route for a German advance.”
Kaz glanced around. “So we're in charge here?”
“That's right.” Jan raised the pitch of his voice and dragged out the word “right,” as if to say: we'd better get used to the responsibility, and quickly. “We should get the able-bodied survivors together, to provide reinforcements.”
“They took the machine guns?”
“Just the light, hand-held ones.”
The heavy machine guns were still in the armory.
They would be needed. Even though they were too heavy for cavalrymen to carry on horseback, that wouldn't matter; there weren't enough surviving horses anyhow, and the reinforcements would have to proceed on foot. While Jan began to round up the able-bodied survivors, Kaz took half a dozen men to the armory.
Its door was locked; they started to beat it with their rifle buts.
“'Ey, you can't do that.” Kaz looked around to see the quartermaster sergeant. “That's army property. Major Kulerski has to sign for weapons.”
“There's a war on, sergeant. Haven't you noticed? Give me the key.”
“Can't without a proper signature, er,... sir.” The sergeant pointed his rifle at Kaz and slid the bolt.
Kaz stared him in the eye for five seconds, and then decided he wasn't going to get the key. He turned his back on the sergeant, and ordered his men: “Keep at it. Harder.”
The men looked at the sergeant's rifle and paused. Kaz urged them on.
“Knock the door down. We need weapons. Your lives will depend on them.”
The sergeant seemed perplexed, and slowly let his rifle sag toward the ground. The men took up their task with enthusiasm, soon breaking through the door.
Within an hour and a half, Kaz, Jan, and two dozen men were overlooking the valley, armed with four heavy machine guns and two mortars drawn by horses over the rocky, uneven terrain.
They had picked the wrong bluff. With his binoculars, Kaz could see the cavalry lined up half way down the next hill, to the east, well hidden from the valley by trees, waiting for an opportunity to charge.
He turned to the west and his heart sank; twenty German tanks were moving swiftly along the valley floor. There wasn't much the cavalry would be able to do about them. It would be up to Kaz and his men to do what little they could. The tank commanders had their heads out the hatches, and infantry were exposed as they rode on the tops of the tanks, behind the turrets.
“The sniper rifles,” Kaz snapped his fingers. A private smartly handed one rifle to Kaz and the other to Sergeant Witos; they were the two best shots.
“The closest tank commander is yours,” Kaz told Witos. “Fire when ready.”
Witos took a deep breath. So did Kaz, aiming for the second commander, whose goggles were shoved up over the top of his head. Through the scope, Kaz could see his face clearly—the picture of a Prussian officer: firm chin, broad forehead, and just a small wisp of blond hair visible below his helmet.
Witos fired. It was a long shot, but lucky; the first German commander collapsed into his tank. Kaz squeezed his trigger. The second commander jerked his hand up to his left cheek. Through his scope, Kaz could see a flash of anger cross his face before he ducked into his tank, slamming the hatch behind him.
Machine-gun bullets were now rattling off the tanks, like heavy, sporadic hail. Infantrymen scrambled off, crouching behind the tanks, which had swung their turrets to the right and were firing at the bluffs. But the gunners were confused, unable to locate Kaz and his company.
Jan called a ceasefire. He had a better target; he nudged Kaz and pointed to the left. A large enemy procession was approaching: trucks, soldiers on motorcycles, and horses drawing light artillery. The column was still some distance away; Kaz and Jan had time to plan an attack.
“This time, let's set things up for our cavalry,” Kaz suggested. “Hold our fire until the column is past us, and almost to the hill where the cavalry is hidden.”
“We'll start firing, and throw the Germans into confusion just as the cavalry charges?”
Kaz nodded. “Aim first at the vanguard. Then work our way down the column; we don't want to hit our cavalry as they charge.”
Jan disappeared with a semaphore signalman; he would contact Maj. Kulerski in command of the cavalry on the next bluff. He was back in a few minutes.
“Fine. Kulerski says we have the best view to plan the attack. Twenty seconds before we open fire, we should signal him; they'll start the cavalry charge.”
This time, Kaz suggested he go with the signalman; he would pick the time to attack. He surprised himself. He wanted Jan to stay behind to command the machine gunners. He was quite prepared to shoot German soldiers, but didn't much like the idea of slaughtering horses.
Kaz selected a small rise that gave him a panoramic view of the approaching battle, plus a clear line of sight to the Polish cavalry and to Jan.
He spoke to the signalman. The semaphore flags snapped smartly. Immediately, the cavalry charged down the hill. Kaz slowly counted to twenty, then waved to Jan. The heavy machine guns erupted. Soon, the cavalry were to the edge of the German column, firing with su
bmachine guns, rifles, and, the officers, with pistols. Jan's men were now directing their fire further back, toward the center and rear of the column. They were indeed creating confusion. A truck blew up; then two others.
With his sixth sense, Kaz felt something was wrong. He looked to the left, back along the German line of advance. A second group of German tanks was approaching, only a few minutes away. Kaz had to warn the cavalry.
But how? Nobody had a flare gun. They might try to fire the mortars into the melee of German infantry and Polish cavalry, risking casualties to their comrades to get their attention. But the range was too great. One of the men began swearing; in their haste, they had brought practice smoke rounds for the mortars—used in training—not live, explosive shells.
All the better, said Kaz; the cavalry might actually see them. The mortars began to lay down wisps of smoke along the valley floor. From the distance, they reminded Kaz of the dark puffs which shot up when, as a child, he and his younger brother made a game of stepping on overripe puffballs. But the signals weren't working. The cavalry were too entangled with the enemy to notice.
Then, someone sensed their peril. The cavalry galloped away. In the rear, several turned in their saddles, spraying submachine-gun fire back at the Germans to keep their heads down.
With dismay, Kaz noticed that three of the lead tanks had doubled back to help their infantry. They moved along the bottom of a hill, hidden from the retreating cavalry, which had now separated into two groups. As the tanks came around the base of the hill and broke into the open, they blocked the retreat of the second, smaller group of cavalry. They opened fire.
For the small group, the situation was hopeless. They lowered their pennant, and one of the officers hoisted a white cloth. The tanks paid no attention. Kaz watched in horror as they machine gunned his surrendering comrades.
By now, the main group of enemy soldiers had detached several artillery pieces from their horses and were setting them up, pointing toward the hill occupied by Kaz and Jan. The time had come to retreat. With all possible speed, they dismantled their machine guns and began to descend the back side of the hill.
There, Kaz knew, a stream meandered through the valley; the sweating horses needed water. As their soft muzzles slurped from a crystal pool, he was awed by the tranquility of the secluded spot, ringed by towering cedars. In a few short hours, he had gone from an exhilarating ride on the meadow, to the horror of their ravaged camp, to the violent clash with the enemy, and now, full circle, back to a peaceful, pastoral scene.
As he listened to the wind whispering through the treetops, his thoughts drifted back to the dinner with Anna and her family. Could that really have been just the day before yesterday? In hindsight, their table talk was ominous. Kaz hoped that his in-laws at the Foreign Office were wrong. Surely Britain and France would come to Poland's aid in their hour of peril. His thoughts were jarred back to the present as a horse snorted and shook its harness.
When Kaz and his men got back to the camp, most of the surviving cavalry had already arrived. They were a bedraggled lot, missing almost half their original number, with many others suffering the wounds of battle. They were camped outside the compound, not wanting to go in for fear of another attack from the air. Major Kulerski had, however, sent men in to get stragglers, plus medical supplies and a field radio.
The news was not good. Terrible, in fact. Enemy spearheads already were thirty kilometers inside Poland. The Luftwaffe had destroyed most of the Polish air force on the ground. Troops would get no air support. On the contrary, they would face nothing but peril from the skies.
As Kulerski switched the radio off, he issued new orders. His remaining forces would be divided in two. Half would move toward Poznan, to help set up a defensive perimeter. The other half would retire towards Warsaw. Kaz was assigned to Poznan; Jan to Warsaw.
“Would anyone like to go with the other group?” Major Kulerski asked his officers.
They shuffled uncomfortably, glancing at one another. Then Kaz spoke up: “Yes, sir. I would prefer Warsaw.”
“Request granted. But why?”
“The reasons are personal, sir.... Could we speak in private, sir?”
Kulerski dismissed the others.
“You wanted to explain?”
“I'm willing to give my life for my country, sir, but I don't want to throw it away.”
“Pardon? I don't understand.”
“We can make a stand in Warsaw. But from what I've heard, sir, Poznan will soon be surrounded.”
Kulerski looked at him sadly. “Lieutenant, this is Poland. We're already surrounded. We were surrounded before the fighting started. Germans to the West. Germans to the North, in East Prussia. Germans to the South, in Czechoslovakia. And to the East, God knows what the Russians have in store for us.”
3
Anna
18 December, 1936. Poznan University.
“We're struggling with a complex problem.” Prof. Henryk Zygalski looked through his steel-rimmed glasses at the precocious sophomore who had so impressed him in his advanced calculus class. Up close, she was even more attractive than he remembered, with her high Slavic cheekbones, her blond hair tumbling down over her shoulders. Perhaps she wasn't a good candidate. She undoubtedly had an active social life—the girl he wished he'd met ten years ago, when he was an undergraduate. But it was worth a try.
“We need good people. People with mathematical skills and imagination. People like you.”
"Sounds intriguing. But you haven't said what the project is."
"Ah, there's the problem. Can't give details until you make a commitment. I realize it's unfair, asking you to take a job without knowing what it is. But it's sensitive, with huge stakes for national security. This chap Hitler. He's stared down the French over the Rhineland. He's begun to rebuild his air force. We don't know what he'll be up to next. Just pray he doesn't have designs on this part of Europe—Poland or Czechoslovakia."
“So you can't give me any more information?”
“Well, perhaps just one bit. Professor Marian Rejewski is working with us. You did outstanding work in his course. He speaks highly of you—he was the one who first recommended you.”
"You said it would just be part-time. I'd still be able to continue with my studies?” The job sounded interesting, although she really couldn't tell. And she was delighting in her life as an undergraduate.
“For the present, we're asking for 10 to 15 hours a week. But after a while, you might become a full-fledged member of our research team. In that case, the job would become full-time, pushing out your university studies.”
Anna was bothered by Zygalski's nervous—impatient?—drumming of his slender fingers on his desk.
“I'll have to give it some thought.... When would you like me to start?”
"Right away. That is, as soon as you can. Perhaps early in the New Year? We've already done a security check. A bit of a liberty, but justified under the circumstances. You passed. Not the least blemish on your record."
Zygalski flopped a folder with Anna's name on the desk. She started to lean forward to open it, then caught herself. Curiosity might not be such a good recommendation for the job—whatever it was.
"Can I talk this over with anyone?"
"Your parents, of course. But if you want to talk with anyone else, please ask us first. With the very dangerous international situation, we're not sure we can, ah... trust each and every one of your fellow students.... If you're asked what you'll be doing, say a weather forecasting project. You may have seen our dull gray building on the western edge of campus."
She had indeed. Now, she realized that it was not accurately described by the simple sign above the front door:
SPECIAL METEOROLOGY PROJECT
POLISH AIR FORCE
"Perhaps I should be more explicit. Particularly after you take the job, if someone asks you what you're doing, just say, weather forecasting. For goodness sake, don't say 'I can't tell you.' That just makes
them curious. They'll consider it a challenge to pry details out of you. If they ask more questions, just say that you work for the Air Force, on a classified project. People won't find that the least bit odd. You can mention that you work at the SMP building. But that's it. Period. Even when talking to your family."
The interview was over.
The bitter north wind swirled across campus. As Anna headed back toward her dorm, she found herself leaning first forward, then to one side, to maintain her balance, repeatedly tucking her scarf tighter to keep snow from sifting down her neck.
She was torn. She was enjoying her courses. But doing something original; that was appealing. Not to speak of the service she might offer her country. But how was she supposed to know if the job was important? She should have asked Zygalski if she could talk to someone already at the project.
No she shouldn't. The answer would have been obvious: no.
She would have to guess. It wasn't weather forecasting; that was clear. Perhaps it had something to do with intelligence? Rejewski was participating. He had studied at Göttingen before returning to Poznan. He was undoubtedly fluent in German, and his brilliant, intense, orderly mind was obvious to all. He would be a natural for any intelligence operation.
But what sort of intelligence? Göttingen was a center not only for advanced mathematics, but physics, too. The great Heisenberg had spent time there in the 1920s. Anna had heard vaguely of research—there might be a military use for a peculiar phenomenon: close-by aircraft disrupt short-wave radio transmissions. But if Physics espionage was Rejewski's game, it didn't make sense to recruit Anna; she didn't know much Physics. On the other hand, she did know English. Was the intelligence operation directed at the British, too? Anna wouldn't want to participate in that.
THE LAST GOOD WAR: A Novel Page 2