THE LAST GOOD WAR: A Novel

by Paul Wonnacott

  Jan and Kaz drew straws; Kaz got the group that would break away across the open country. Before parting, they warmed up the radio. The news was depressing, but not hopeless. A major defensive force was gathering around Poznan, and the fortifications around Warsaw were being strengthened as many army units retreated in a more-or-less orderly way toward the capital. Britain and France had declared war on Germany. The time had come to pray for a French thrust into Germany, to force Hitler to shift army and Luftwaffe units to the west.

  Kaz and his group of 35 set out immediately; there was still enough daylight to travel rapidly, and German air activity had almost ceased with the oncoming dusk. They made remarkably good time for the first hour, but then had to slow down because of the gathering darkness. Kaz set out his plan for the most rapid movement eastward: they would travel at top speed, and as directly across country as possible, during the periods when there was enough light for horsemen, but not enough for German aircraft—for almost an hour at dusk, and a briefer period each morning, beginning with the first glimmer of light. Where they had the protection of forests, they would continue to move during the day. Otherwise, they would rest and let their horses graze, and move during the night instead.

  After two days and nights, they reached and crossed the Bzura River—about 50 kilometers west of Warsaw—and were greeted by a group of Polish infantrymen. This, they were told, was where they would make a stand.

  As the German tanks approached, the Polish plan was to direct artillery fire over the river at the Panzers, and to use all available weapons to disrupt any attempt by the Germans to cross. On the flanks, infantry and cavalry would probe. The infantry would seek out and destroy German infantry units unprotected by tanks or heavy artillery; the cavalry's objective would be to disrupt and destroy German supply lines, while avoiding German armored units.

  The Polish attack began on Sept. 9. Kaz and Jan—who had survived a five-day ordeal along the main road—would each lead a marauding band of about 30 men; they had picked up reinforcements from other cavalry units. Kaz and his men crossed the river before dawn, and galloped west-northwest about ten kilometers. They then began to proceed, more slowly, in a leftward arc, searching for Germans.

  They were in luck. As they proceeded along the edge of a hardwood forest—for protection against air attack—they spotted a convoy of a dozen German trucks, accompanied by half a dozen soldiers on motorcycles. Moving up behind two low hills, the Poles set up their light machine guns and small mortars. They would fire at the Germans as they came around a bend in the road.

  Their attack could not have worked better. The machine gunners made quick work of the motorcyclists, and mortars soon had the first and last of the trucks on fire, making it impossible for any of the others to move. As troops dismounted from trucks, they were attacked with machine-gun fire. Then the third truck erupted in a spectacular explosion; apparently it had been filled with ammunition. Another truck exploded, less spectacularly, but continued to burn with the dark, greasy smoke of diesel fuel.

  The Poles continued to fire for another five minutes; by then, there was little left of the German column. A number of survivors had escaped into the woods on the far side of the road, but it would be foolish to pursue them. Kaz ordered his men to pack their weapons and retreat towards the woods on their side of the road.

  It was none too soon. Just as they had mounted and begun to move, they heard the terrifying sound of a Stuka's siren as it began its dive. The riders scattered; an explosion erupted on the side of the hill as a German bomb hit the ground. Kaz's men were far enough separated that there were only two fatalities, with the men and their horses being thrown into the air. After leveling out, the plane began a sharp turn; it was going to return and attack the fleeing Poles with machine guns. Fortunately, Kaz and his men reached the safety of the woods before the Stuka could complete its turn.

  The surviving cavalrymen reassembled in the protection of the woods. Other than the two dead men, they had escaped unscathed, but had lost one of their machine guns. They waited in the woods for about half an hour, fearful of a follow-up air attack, but then continued along the side of the woods, looking for additional victims.

  That day, they found none. Early the next morning, as they were passing a small village, a horseback rider galloped up.

  “Germans are in the village,” he said breathlessly. “You're our only hope.”

  Kaz was torn. But he had his orders. “I'm sorry, friend, but we have a specific mission. We can't go into villages the Germans have already occupied.”

  “But the Germans have taken hostages. They may shoot them. They're just young boys.”

  Helmut Krueger joined the SS at eighteen. He wanted to show those high-school snobs that he really was better than any of them. His few friends considered the SS the best, the most elite unit, a military force directly answerable to the National Socialist Party. He felt a secret thrill every time he looked at his solid black uniform. The skull on his cap—indicating he was a member of a Totenkopf or Death's Head Regiment—signified Hitler's will: this elite unit was the arbiter of life and death. After rigorous training, both military and political, he recommitted himself to the Nazi Party and received his commission. Within a few months, he was promoted to Obersturmführer, the SS equivalent of the regular army rank of Oberleutnant (First Lieutenant).

  As war clouds gathered, he was indoctrinated with the ideas of the Führer. Hitler would crush the Bolsheviks in Russia and save Western civilization. Just how the murder of civilians would save “civilization,” Hitler did not say; and the young officers, mesmerized by their Führer, had no inclination to ask.

  Hitler blamed Jews for Germany's humiliating defeat in the First World War, for stabbing the armed forces in the back. In his crude view of history, Jewish-led revolts caused a collapse on the home front. To the men in the trenches—including Corporal Adolf Hitler—the shock of defeat was particularly painful, coming, as it did, so soon after the glorious victories of early 1918. They needed a scapegoat.

  Shortly after the invasion of Poland, SS Chief Reinhard Heydrich met with his officers to underline their duty:

  “As the army advances, you will move in to pacify the population. Any act of resistance must be dealt with ruthlessly, without mercy. You have authority to execute civilians summarily, without trial. The regular army is forbidden to interfere. Jews, gypsies, priests, bishops, and the Polish nobility are your first targets.”

  Krueger steeled himself for the test ahead. It soon came.

  His men entered a small town about 70 kilometers west of Warsaw, just as the regular army was moving out. Two quick shots were fired from the church steeple; one of the soldiers fell to the ground, blood spurting from the side of his head. The army commander could not stop to find the sniper; his orders were to move eastward as quickly as possible. It was up to Krueger to deal with the assassin.

  Krueger ordered two of his men to circle around to the back of the church and climb the stairs to the steeple. They were soon back, with a pimple-faced 15-year old and an ancient rifle. Krueger then ordered another four of his men to search the church. Within five minutes, two dozen boy scouts emerged with their hands in the air. Behind them was a priest with hands folded in front of his body. Behind were the SS troopers, bayonets fixed. They had interrupted a scout meeting in the basement; the Poles were trying to carry on with their normal lives.

  Krueger ordered the two dozen scouts and the priest lined up along the side of the church. A private bound the hands of the young sniper and held him on the ground, off to one side, a pistol to the back of his head. A few villagers were beginning to assemble in the street. Krueger instructed his Polish-speaking sergeant to shout a proclamation:

  People of Poland. You are now under the rule of the German Reich. Any resistance will be crushed. A German's life is worth twenty Poles. Those attacking German soldiers will be shot. To even the score, so will their friends and relatives. In this case, the lives of the boy scouts
are forfeit. The boy who killed our soldier will be shot last. He will live just long enough to see the consequences of his act. Anyone attempting to interfere will be shot.

  Thereupon, five of Krueger's men turned toward the villagers on the street, lowering their rifles, bayonets fixed. In a panic, one of the boy scouts tried to escape. He rushed to get around the corner of the church, but was shot before he could take more than a dozen steps. Six other soldiers opened fire immediately, killing first the boys at the ends of the line, then working their way toward the middle.

  A woman screamed and rushed toward the soldiers. One of them knocked her to the ground with the butt of his rifle.

  Within a few seconds, the scouts lay dead. The priest alone remained standing, quietly, motionless, arms clasped at his waist, staring coldly at the Germans.

  “Finish!” shouted Krueger.

  Several soldiers fired and the priest fell to the ground. Krueger turned to the private holding the young sniper, struggling in vain to get loose. Krueger nodded. The private fired a single shot.

  Krueger marched quickly to the back of the church and turned the corner. He stepped behind a bush and vomited. He didn't want his men to see his weakness. He had passed his first test as a member of Hitler's Totenkopf.

  And his last.

  Kaz and his men rode cautiously toward the village. When they were still short of the first house, they dismounted, leaving four men to guard the horses, with the rest approaching the village on foot. Just as they were about to reach the first house, rifle fire broke out and continued sporadically for about a minute. Kaz and his men quickly left the side of the road and raced along the edge of the woods behind the houses and sheds.

  A little way into the village, they heard a commotion across the street. Half a dozen German soldiers were amusing themselves by chasing chickens around a pen, apparently trying to catch their dinner. Kaz left five men hidden.

  “Hold your fire until the shooting starts,” he instructed them. “Then kill the chicken thieves and any other Germans you can find.”

  A little farther on, Kaz and his remaining men came to the village church, and were sickened by the sight—bodies of two dozen teenagers. Half a dozen German soldiers were guarding a group of villagers who had been forced to lie down at the edge of the street. Another six or eight soldiers were guarding a group of Poles chosen to dig new graves in the church graveyard.

  Kaz told Sub-Lieut. Jaroszewicz to take eight men further along the edge of the village, looking for additional German soldiers. They, too, were ordered to hold their fire until the shooting started.

  Whispering, Kaz gave each of his men a specific German target. Those assigned to the guards at the edge of the street were to aim high, for the upper chests of the Germans, to avoid casualties among the civilians lying on the ground. After a tense wait of several minutes, Kaz ordered his men to fire. Many of the Germans fell at once. Kaz could hear firing break out at the edges of the village.

  Soon the shooting stopped. About a dozen Germans lay dead near the church, and another six or eight were wounded—some so seriously that they could offer no resistance, and others were holding their hands in the air. Within a few minutes, the chicken-coop gang arrived. They reported having killed the six chicken thieves, and had five prisoners with them. The prisoners had been in one of the houses, and had come out with their hands up when they heard the firing.

  In all, the German casualties were 18 dead, 11 wounded, and seven unwounded prisoners. One of the wounded prisoners was a lieutenant, apparently the commander of the group. The Poles had suffered only one dead and four slightly wounded.

  Kaz called for Sgt. Kowalski, who spoke German fluently, and asked him to interrogate the German lieutenant. Kowalski took the lieutenant's Luger and escorted him to the back garden of the next house, where there were several chairs and a table. On the way, the lieutenant was awkwardly trying to bandage his wounded right arm.

  Kaz ordered six men to take up strategic points in the village in case more Germans appeared. Another six were to go back down the road and bring up the horses. The rest of the men were to look after the prisoners, gather up the weapons, and prepare to move on to their next objective. Kaz and Jaroszewicz retired into the back of the church to plan their next move.

  Kowalski took the chair facing Obersturmführer Krueger, offering him a cigarette. Krueger lit it, and made a sour face; apparently it did not meet German standards. Kowalski decided not to smoke, to keep his hands free. He held the Luger loosely in his right hand.

  “OK, lieutenant, what's your unit?”

  “As you can see from my uniform, I belong to the SS.” Krueger pointed to his collar, which had two stylized S's, each looking like a lightning bolt.

  “Yeah? What's the SS?”

  “The Schutzstaffel. We're Hitler's praetorian guard. We were set up to protect the Nazi Party. We're not part of the regular army. We answer directly to Himmler and Hitler.”

  “Bully for you. Your job is to kill young boys?”

  “Krueger, Helmut. Obersturmführer. 253776.”

  Kowalski almost lost hold of the Luger as it recoiled; the bullet whistled about 6 inches from Krueger's ear. “My, your Luger does seem to have a hair trigger.”

  The German turned slightly pale but otherwise showed no emotion.

  “OK. Let's start again. What other German formations are in the area?”

  Krueger was now looking directly down the barrel of the pistol. He saw no harm in telling the truth; it would scare the Pole. “The fourth infantry division is to the east, and the seventeenth is coming up rapidly from the west. There are two Panzer divisions already along the Bzura River—the second and ninth, if you must know. So if you want to get back across the river, you'll have to fight your way through infantry and tanks. Lots of luck. You'll need it.”

  “Now we're making progress.” Kowalski was resting his elbow on the rough, unpainted table; now he had a firm grip on the Luger. “What were your orders? If we hadn't come along, what were you supposed to do?”

  “Krueger, Helmut. Obersturmführer. 253776.”

  This time, the bullet nicked his left ear.

  Krueger glanced around at the ripening corn, browning at the edges where the early frost had nipped the leaves. It reminded him of his boyhood home in Bavaria. Was he about to die in this beautiful, Godforsaken place? He decided to answer.

  “Our job was to stay here for 24 hours, to pacify the village. Then we were to await new orders.”

  “Pacify the village? What the hell does that mean?”

  “To make sure that you Poles cause no trouble. That you recognize who's in charge, that you respect our rule.”

  “You shoot young boys to gain respect?”

  “That was a necessary lesson. One of the boys shot a German soldier.” He then repeated his incantation: “Twenty Poles are worth no more than one German.”

  The third bullet went through Krueger's heart.

  Meanwhile, Kaz and Jaroszewicz had made their decision. They would ride back toward the river and their lines, hoping to get back by the morning of the next day. They would follow their orders, attacking targets of opportunity and avoiding armored German forces.

  As they emerged from the church, a corporal came up and saluted. “The horses are here, sir, and we're prepared to leave at once.”

  “Good,” replied Kaz. “Where are the prisoners?”

  “The prisoners, sir? We asked a dozen civilians to bury them in the church graveyard. They refused to put them in hallowed ground, but agreed to bury them in a field.”

  “Bury them? But they weren't dead.”

  “They are now, sir. You said to get ready to move on. Obviously, we can't take them with us.”

  “Ah, yes.” Kaz wasn't sure whether it had turned out the way he really wanted. It would be difficult to move with the SS men, and the prisoners could scarcely claim the protection of the Geneva Convention. He realized that, in the very unlikely event of an inquiry, it would
be unclear who was responsible.

  Kaz also made a point of leaving the dead Polish soldier behind. If the Germans showed up again in the next day or two, the dead body, still in uniform, would verify that the German soldiers were killed by Polish soldiers, not by the villagers. There would be less risk of another brutal reprisal.

  As before, the cavalrymen kept toward the edges of forests where possible, but had to gallop over open countryside whenever there were no trees. They were also trying to keep close to roads, in order to ambush German trucks. They destroyed a lone German truck, then a group of three others; the German trucks had no protection, and the Poles suffered no casualties.

  As they were crossing an open field, however, they were attacked by a low-flying Messerschmitt 109 fighter, which machine gunned their group and then circled back for a second attack just before the cavalrymen reached the cover of the nearest woods. Even though they had scattered, they suffered heavy casualties, along with the loss of most of the horses. They now had only 15 unwounded men and ten horses left.

  Because of the wounded, Kaz decided that his major task was to get his men back to safety across the Bzura River. Their best chance would be to wait in the woods until dusk, and then move as rapidly as possible during the last hour of fading daylight and through the night. Their medic had been killed; Kaz sent three parties of two men each out in different directions, to see if they could locate a town or village with a doctor. The scouts must get back before 5:00 p.m.; otherwise, they would be left behind.

  They all got back, but empty-handed; they could not get a doctor. Jaroszewicz and his companion were badly shaken. As they cautiously approached a town, they had observed smoke rising. They slowed down even more. When they got to the edge of town, they were met by civilians who told a grisly tale. German troops entered the town that morning, and went directly to the Jewish sector. They forced several hundred Jews into the synagogue, which they then sealed and set on fire.

  The two remaining doctors in town were overwhelmed with work, ministering to burned and wounded civilians, plus a dozen or so severely wounded Polish soldiers in hiding. Neither doctor would be able to come to help the wounded cavalrymen in the woods. Fortunately, the Germans had finally left town. Jaroszewicz asked the townsmen about the German uniforms. The officers had skulls in their caps. The SS.