The Danzig Corridor
Paul R. E. Jarvis
This book is protected under copyright law. Any reproduction or other unauthorised use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited.
The book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2020 Paul R. E. Jarvis
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 979-8-67-115108-4
1
Having witnessed the city of Danzig descend into sectarianism, Viktor feared for his family’s safety. His wife, Zofia, was pregnant and their two boys, Peter and Niklos, had begun to ask awkward questions about why their friends had left. Leaving behind the family home was never going to be easy, but now it was a matter of survival. The German Army was coming. It was only a question of when.
Most of the night, Viktor hovered in the no-man’s land between anxious consciousness and disturbed dreaming. His mind was racing; he couldn’t sleep. The braces of his trousers hung loosely at his hips as he crept downstairs. He stopped in front of the mirror. A tall man, broad in the shoulders, Viktor looked like a Polish Clark Gable—Zofia always said. He adjusted his swept-back, brown hair with a comb from his pocket, flattening an awkward tuft on the side with a dab of saliva.
Downstairs, moonlight filtered through the shopfront, casting long shadows across the bakery. The chill of the tiled floor under his bare feet a stark reminder that today would be the first day he could remember when the ovens would not be lit. An army of around a hundred policemen marched past his shop, taking him by surprise. Dressed in their characteristic dark blue overcoats and ostentatious, black shako caps, they strode along the cobbles. Solemn-faced, their eyes were fixed on the road ahead. Where were they heading?
Outside, the bitter morning air made Viktor shiver. His beloved horse, Miedziak, protruded its head over the stable door to see who had ventured into the courtyard so early in the day. The old boy snorted, ejecting two plumes of steam which swiftly evaporated. Viktor patted the animal’s long neck while feeding him oats from a nosebag which hung from a nail.
The wooden delivery cart occupied the centre of the cobbled yard. Peeling back the grey tarpaulin covering, he swept the flour from its slatted floor. There would be no space for luxuries on this journey, just the essentials. Stowing three bottles of water and a couple of blankets, he headed inside for some much-valued chocolate. This was an essential item, to be only used strategically for cheering up the boys when nothing else worked.
Viktor crept upstairs to their bedroom where his wife still slept. He watched her sleep from the end of the bed, a smile involuntarily curling his lips. He loved everything about her, even after ten years of marriage. Her looks, her personality, and even her moodiness, he was just drawn to her. They had been childhood sweethearts and he had been too shy to ask her out at first, so he relied on one of his friends to do it for him. In his world, she was everything. Viktor bent down and kissed her soft cheek, causing her to stir. The enormity of the day flooded back as quickly as the haziness drifted away.
‘Morning, gorgeous,’ she said, her eyes still closed.
‘Morning, love,’ he replied. ‘It’s time to get up.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Just after four.’
‘Are the boys awake?’ she asked, stifling a yawn.
‘No, they’re still asleep.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘They’ll need their rest.’
‘Things look bad! The police are out on the streets. They must know something.’
‘We’d better go,’ she said, now fully awake. ‘You get the boys ready and let’s skip breakfast. We can eat while we’re travelling.’
‘When do you think we should tell them we’re going to Olsztyn?’
‘Now,’ she replied, starting to dress. ‘Try not to worry them, though. Today is going to be hard enough without them being upset.’
‘Hey! I’m just going to tell them we’re off to visit my parents,’ he said. ‘You know what they’re like. They’ll be so excited they won’t think anything of it.’
‘Are you sure we should go to Olsztyn? There are many more Germans there than there are here.’
‘Where else could we go?’ he asked, searching for an answer. ‘We can’t go west, because we’d end up in Germany. The rest of Poland is likely to be just as bad as here. The only other possibility would be to head for Russia, and I really don’t trust Stalin. He’d sell his own grandmother if he thought it would give him more power. Trust me, my parent’s farm is the safest option.’
‘It’s a bit of a gamble, don’t you think?’
‘I agree it’s risky heading into East Prussia, but I can’t imagine there’s going to be much fighting there. If we can cross the border before it kicks off, we’ll be fine.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ she said, knowing what he was like once he had made up his mind.
The contrast between the two children was astounding. Niklos was five and slept amidst a heap of tangled bedclothes. It looked as if he had been doing somersaults throughout the night. Conversely, Peter, three years his elder, lay with the bedding arranged neatly. If he had not created an impression on the pillow, it would have been hard to tell the bed had been occupied. These differences summed up their contrasting personalities. Niklos was full of energy, similar to his mother. From the moment he opened his eyes in the morning to last thing at night, he was continually moving. Peter was much more like Viktor, serious and much more restrained.
‘It’s time to wake up, lads,’ Viktor announced from their bedroom doorway.
By the time the two boys had made their way downstairs, he had already drained his first coffee cup.
‘I have some good news,’ he said with an upbeat tone. They appeared uninterested by their father’s proclamation, primarily because his usual announcements resulted in the two of them having to wash the dishes for their mother. ‘We’re going to visit Grandma and Grandpa for a couple of days.’
‘Really?’ said Niklos.
Viktor nodded, resulting in broad-beaming grins across their young faces.
‘When do we leave?’ Peter asked excitedly.
‘Once we’ve loaded the cart. So, hurry upstairs and grab your favourite toys to show Grandma.’
No more words were necessary. The two boys ran out of the kitchen, jostling each other as they raced up the stairs.
‘I told you it wouldn’t be a problem,’ he said, cuddling his wife while she stood at the sink.
Viktor admired his wife’s figure as she scraped back her shoulder-length, curly hair, before covering it with a brown headscarf, knotted under the chin. She was a pleasing mixture of skinny and shapely, with an appealing face to match. He crept up behind her, giving her a hug. A warm glow appeared in her blue, almond-shaped eyes, the corner of her lips curling upwards. Lingering for as long as possible, husband and wife embraced before facing the journey ahead.
After a quick run around the house, looking for things they may have forgotten, Zofia locked the back door and then hurried the children into the heavily laden cart. The boys clambered among their belongings and settled wherever they could find space. With a brisk shake of the reins, Miedziak reluctantly ventured onto the uneven cobbles of the narrow alleyway. Zofia secured the gates with a sturdy padlock before joining her husband on the bench behind the horse. As they joined Hucisko Street, a tear ran down her left cheek. Everything was happening so fast. She pulled her scarf tight, attempting to hide her sobbing. Would she ever see her home again?
Victor glanced at her, putting his hand on her thigh. ‘We’ll be back by Christmas,’ he said, trying to reassure her
.
She stared straight ahead, blinking back the tears.
Danzig had once been a jewel of the Prussian Empire, but Germany had been carved in two at the end of the Great War, creating a new state, East Prussia, which now sat like a German island amongst Poland and the Baltic states. The city of Danzig, sandwiched between East Prussia and what remained of Germany, became a free state to allow Poland access to the Baltic Sea, loosening the Poles’ dependency on Germany and allowing them to trade with the rest of the world. Isolated, the predominantly German population in the city had rallied behind the leader of the regional Nazi Party who had promised re-annexation. The Nazi Party had started agitating the German population in 1936, causing cultural tensions to soar. Three years later, war in the region now seemed inevitable, prompting many of the city’s Polish residents to leave, while the German families waited impatiently for reunification.
A handful of Polish men, calling themselves ‘The Militia,’ had elected to remain in the city. Viktor had received many invites to join them but had always declined. For the last few days, he had seen them busily barricading the streets in readiness to defend their homes. Many roads and key defensive positions were blocked with sandbags, occupied by groups of three or four men with only one rifle between them.
Over the last week, the atmosphere had deteriorated further. A German battleship, the Schleswig-Holstein, had moored off the Westerplatte peninsula in one of the city’s harbour channels. Crowds of chattering schoolboys had hurried past Viktor’s shop, eager to catch a glimpse of the gun-metal grey vessel. The city no longer felt safe; they had to leave. Viktor decided they should head for his parents’ farm near Olsztyn, about a hundred miles to the east. They had made the journey many times without incident, but their destination was in East Prussia. German territory.
Suddenly, two deafening booms rocked the cart, followed by a high-pitched screech overhead. One of the boys let out a scream. Two further explosions shook the ground, provoking the horse to rear up wildly. Viktor redistributed his weight to prevent them from tipping. Slowly, he brought the frightened animal under control while Zofia gathered her children in her arms. She hugged them tightly, spreading her cloak around their shoulders.
The massive guns fired again. Each shockwave pounding deep in his chest, prompting Viktor to spur Miedziak onwards. The grey sky roared, heralding a trio of German dive-bombers. They were flying so low he could see the black insignia on their wings. Rifle shots rang out from an alleyway as the militia fired at the planes. One of the aircraft broke from formation, arced around, and then strafed the alley. Mud and grit were thrown into the air, causing the terrified boys to shriek A prolonged sequence of loud detonations followed, punctuated by bursts of machine gun fire. The tremendous noise echoed off the nearby buildings, exacerbating the confusion. He glanced across at Zofia; the look of horror on her face said it all.
A few blocks behind them, a tall building took a direct hit. Large pieces of masonry were hurled into the street, producing further chaos. Volleys of retaliatory rifle fire could occasionally be heard but were soon swamped by the well-orchestrated fire from the advancing German troops.
An aircraft dived directly above them, the shrill howl of its siren generating panic. Viktor watched in horror as the plane released a bomb immediately before pulling into a steep climb. The bomb’s trajectory carried it over a row of houses towards the harbour before it exploded. Acrid clouds billowed across the road, stinging their throats. The two boys quaked as they clung to their helpless mother.
Viktor, with his face set like flint, jerked the reins, urging the horse to go faster. He had stopped caring about the pedestrians around him; they had to get far away from the port. After forty-five minutes, they reached the checkpoint on the bridge at Wyspa Spichrzów. The official who was meant to oversee it had fled long ago. The barrier lay broken on the ground, trampled underfoot by the long line of desperate people clambering along the river crossing. Sporadic scuffles had erupted as people tried to push past each other. Meanwhile, an old lady wailed to the sky, disbelief etched on her face.
More planes screamed overhead, stirring the oppressive air as they headed towards Westerplatte. Another series of blasts forced the crowd closer together. With a groan, one of the buildings began to wobble, weakened by the numerous explosions. The wall collapsed, spewing the building’s content into the street. The people in front of them buckled to avoid the falling debris. Viktor saw his opportunity. He pushed Miedziak even harder, provoking angry cries from those around him. The cart ploughed over the bridge, mounting the kerb. It did not matter anymore; they had to get out of the city.
2
Sixteen hundred miles from the horrors in Danzig, a truck carrying men from the Second Battalion of the Hampshire Regiment hurtled along a country lane, deep in the English countryside. Their overnight triumph had fuelled some raucous singing, pushing tiredness to the back of their minds.
They passed through the barrier at the entrance of Aldershot barracks, before pulling onto the parade ground. As soon as the wheels stopped turning, Corporal Henry Taylor jumped down onto the asphalt, weary from the night’s exercise. His lower legs were caked in mud, a prominent smear decorating the left side of his uniform jacket. His narrow eyes, acknowledged the driver before he trudged towards his dormitory, dragging his equipment behind him.
‘Well done, ’Enry,’ Alan Phillips said, patting his colleague on the back.
‘Thanks,’ he replied, he said, his smile still warm despite his exhaustion.
‘Did you see that Grenadier sergeant’s face when the exercise ended? He was furious.’
Henry nodded, dumping his kit on the floor, next to his bunk.
‘Sarge, it’s a shame you weren’t there,’ Phillips shouted across the room. ‘We showed those Grenadiers a thing or two. Henry masterminded the whole thing. His plan worked like a dream.’
Sergeant Midgley stood next to the window, watching other trucks park up. A sling supported his left arm, the result of a training accident the previous day.
‘When do you think you’ll be fit to return to duty, Sarge?’ Henry asked.
‘Oh, the medic said I should be fine by the end of next week. But I’m not so sure.’
Henry grabbed an early morning edition of a newspaper which lay on the table in the centre of the room and launched himself up onto his bunk, still wearing his grubby uniform.
‘Germany invades Poland,’ he read out loud, his muddy boots hanging over the edge. ‘I guess we’re going to be shipped out in the next couple of days.’
‘Sarge, do you think your injury will stop you coming with us?’ Phillips asked.
‘Don’t worry, lad, wild horses couldn’t stop me coming with you.’
‘If you ask me, it goes to show you can’t trust politicians,’ said Phillips. ‘Peace in our time, I ask you. The prime minister couldn’t guarantee peace in a cemetery.’
‘What do you think?’ Henry asked, looking at Ed, sitting below, cleaning his boots.
‘We’ll get our marching orders before long. It can’t come soon enough for me.’
‘I have always thought that Chamberlain and his government were spineless,’ Phillips said, walking to the shower block with a towel around his waist. ‘If you ask me, we should have invaded Germany months ago. That would’ve stopped this nonsense getting out of hand.’
‘If Britain gets involved, I wonder where they’ll send us?’ Ed asked. ‘Poland sounds very cold, doesn’t it?’
‘We won’t be going to Poland, lad. It’s too far away,’ Midgley said. ‘Think about it—Britain’s not threatened by war there. The bigger danger lies with Germany.’
‘They tried to conquer Europe twenty years ago,’ said Phillips. ‘I wouldn’t put it past them to try again. They’ve got unfinished business.’
‘If we go anywhere it’ll be somewhere like France or Belgium, you mark my words,’ Midgely added.
The news of the events in Central Europe had spread around the base
. The reactions within the different barracks varied. Some men were chattering excitedly; others were more reflective, quietly writing letters to their loved ones. Henry was feeling quite melancholic. Sitting on his bunk, legs hanging down, he thumbed through some faded photographs of his parents which he kept next to his pillow. Both were long dead, but he continued to miss them. Seven years ago, his father had passed away from tuberculosis. The slow, painful decline of the man he admired most in the world still haunted Henry. It had been horrible. His father had fought in the trenches of Northern France, yet this disease had reduced him to a frail shell, stripping him of all its dignity. Just prior to his death, he had been totally dependent on others for the simplest of tasks. If he were honest, his father’s decline had been the reason he had escaped to the army.
His parents had met during the last war. Henry’s father had been based in the north of France. His mother, the daughter of the local magistrate. She only spoke a little English. Consequently, Henry grew up bilingual. Unfortunately, she had died during childbirth, when he was just seven years old. His only sibling, David, had survived the ordeal and was now a private with the Welsh Guards, currently stationed in Gibraltar. It had been several weeks since Henry had written to him, but they hadn’t seen each other for more than a year. They were not good at keeping in touch. It was not because Henry did not get on with him. Far from it. He just never seemed to get around to it. Henry wondered what the impending war had in store for him and his brother.
Having spent the early hours of the morning engineering his unit’s success on the mock battlefield, he now felt jaded. With Midgley’s shoulder injury forcing him out of action, Henry had been asked to take charge, and it had gone well. Far better than he had expected. Pleasingly, the unit had followed his instructions correctly. He hoped his superiors had realised what he was capable of.
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