Chapter 133: The Arrogant Poles
At the same time, in Berlin, Jörg had not slept for the entire night.
The lamps in the office had burned until the glass shades were hot. Maps covered the long table, and red and black markers crowded the borders of East Prussia and Danzig. The ashtray beside him was filled with cigarette ends that were not his. Around him, staff officers moved in disciplined silence, their boots striking the floorboards in short, restrained rhythms.
Then the telegram from the front arrived.
Ethan stood beside him, unfolded the message, and read each word with care.
"Sir, the assault troops have completely secured Danzig."
A faint ripple passed through the room.
"Our intelligence assets in the surrounding area report that two Polish divisions are currently advancing toward Danzig."
Ethan's voice did not change.
"From the East Prussian direction, the Third Armored Division has routed several scattered Polish units and is advancing rapidly toward Danzig."
The good news had barely settled when the door was pushed open again. A secretary hurried in, face pale from running.
"Your Excellency, Deputy Commander-in-Chief, Poland has launched an offensive along the border."
For a moment, Jörg went still.
He had expected the Poles to bluster. He had expected protests, threats, diplomatic hysteria, and perhaps a reckless deployment toward Danzig.
But to attack the border directly adjacent to Germany's core territory?
That was not courage.
That was arrogance.
Pure, swollen, suicidal arrogance.
"The units stationed at the border are Bock and Paulus's Second Armored Division, correct?"
"Yes, sir."
"Tell them and all neighboring border units to coordinate immediately." Jörg's voice was cold enough to freeze steel. "Every Polish force that crosses the border is to be encircled and destroyed."
He raised his eyes.
"If they dare come, not one of them is to leave alive."
"Yes, sir!"
After issuing the order, Jörg adjusted his suit, smoothed the front of his coat, and walked quickly toward the broadcast room.
At that moment, inside a pub in Berlin, the photographs from Danzig had already shattered the dream that had been carefully cultivated since 1925.
The dream that Danzig would return peacefully.
The dream that justice might be restored through treaties, declarations, and signatures.
The dream that the world still had room for German patience.
On the tables lay newspapers printed with blurred images. Germans driven from their homes. Veterans beaten and dragged away. Streets emptied by soldiers. Faces of people who shared the same blood, the same language, and the same history as those now gathered around the beer-stained tables.
The resentment of the workers had reached its peak.
The anxiety brought by the economic crisis, the shrinking wages, the cold kitchens and unpaid debts, all of it was pushed aside by something older and more violent.
National humiliation.
Men drank heavily and slammed their mugs against the tables.
"Those damned Poles dared invade our land! Those beasts!"
"And this damned government has kept silent for a whole week. A whole week! They take our taxes and let foreign soldiers raise their claws at Germany. Useless cowards!"
"Yes! If they don't give us an explanation soon, we'll strike. This is a national humiliation!"
Several workers from the Progress Party sneered from the side.
"When the Leader was accused of disturbing the peace, weren't you the ones shouting that you wanted peace, not war? Now you remember the value of national defense?"
"Ridiculous."
The words nearly sparked a fistfight. Several half-drunk workers stood up, sleeves rolled, faces flushed with anger and alcohol.
Then a deep male voice came from the radio.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I am Jörg von Roman, Deputy Commander-in-Chief of the Wehrmacht."
The pub quieted at once.
"I represent the Wehrmacht and the Weimar Republic in issuing the following declaration."
Chairs creaked. Glasses stilled. Even the men who had been ready to brawl turned toward the radio.
"Over the past week, the Poles have carried out inhuman attacks and purges in Danzig. They have driven our people from our land."
"They tore down neighborhoods. They imprisoned those who resisted. They dragged veterans who once bled for Germany to the seaside and executed them."
"This is not merely a border incident."
His voice remained calm, but beneath that calm was iron.
"This is a provocation against the dignity of the German nation."
The pub fell into complete silence.
Jörg's speeches had always carried a peculiar strength. His words were not ornate, nor did he rely on theatrical flourishes, but he had a talent for seizing the buried emotions in people's chests and giving them a voice.
"I will not tolerate it."
"The Wehrmacht will not tolerate it."
"Germany will not tolerate it."
"And the people who live and die on this land, the people who still hold their homeland dear, will not tolerate it!"
His tone suddenly rose.
The pub erupted.
"Vengeance!"
"Blood for blood!"
"Make them pay!"
It was not only that pub.
Across Berlin, across factory dormitories and railway stations, across police barracks, workers' apartments, student halls, and veterans' clubs, the same fire spread outward.
All Germany began to release the humiliation it had swallowed for years.
Jörg's voice continued.
"They thought we were cowards."
"Then we shall use vengeance to show them who the cowards truly are."
"We shall use cannons to teach them what truth means."
"Last night, brave German soldiers landed in Danzig. As of this moment, they have completely secured the city."
"But the Poles, those insatiable beasts, have not yet learned fear."
"They have dispatched troops to the border again. Since they insist on battle, we will meet them in battle."
"There is only one road before us."
"Forward."
His voice became heavier with every word.
"Forward to victory."
"Forward to Danzig."
"Forward to vengeance."
"Forward to a better future."
Then came the final sentence, like a hammer striking an anvil.
"Forward, Germany!"
Inside the pub, the Progress Party workers raised their arms first and shouted as one:
"Forward, Germany!"
Others followed, swept up by the same force.
"Forward, Germany!"
The cry spilled from pubs into streets, from streets into courtyards, from courtyards into the night sky above Berlin.
Tonight, Germany would not sleep.
And Jörg von Roman's name, carried by that speech, began to change from the name of a politician into the name of a symbol.
Late that night, along the East Prussian frontier, the headquarters of the Polish Sixth Infantry Division was in chaos.
Divisional Commander Kov Karafl paced in front of the communications table, his face dark with fury.
"Where are the two battalions stationed at the border?"
No one answered.
"Why is there still no news from them?"
He slammed his hand on the table.
"Did they stop that German unit at Kachyul Village or not? Do we even know how many men the Germans have?"
His voice climbed higher.
"And now I don't even know whether we should support them or stay here to guard the river bridge. Did those madmen have no contingency plan before attacking Danzig?"
He cursed under his breath.
"Damn it!"
A communications soldier turned from the field telephone, helpless and sweating.
"Report, Divisional Commander. The telephone line is down. We are attempting radio contact."
"It may have been severed by artillery fire."
Karafl clearly had no intention of accepting such an explanation.
"Send a telegram to headquarters. Ask them what exactly they expect us to do."
He pointed toward the door.
"And assemble the soldiers. Establish defenses immediately. Move!"
The orderly rushed out at once.
A second later, intense gunfire and explosions erupted outside the command post.
Tututututu!
Bang!
Two shells struck the ammunition depot.
The sympathetic detonation sent a blazing cloud of fire into the night sky. The ground shook. Windows shattered. Dust and sparks rained from the ceiling.
Karafl's face turned white. He instinctively ducked beneath the command table.
Before he could order someone to check what was happening outside, a blood-soaked cavalryman galloped up to the entrance. The man nearly fell from his horse, stumbled through the door, and screamed in a trembling voice:
"Divisional Commander! Run! The Germans have broken through the first line of defense. They'll be here soon!"
Karafl froze.
Kachyul Village was dozens of kilometers away.
How had the Germans broken through the defensive line without the forward units sending even a single complete report?
How had they reached division headquarters within a few hours?
Could the Germans fly?
Bang!
A thunderous crash exploded beside his ears.
Half of the wooden command hut was blown apart. Flames licked outward from the breach. Karafl was hurled to the floor by the shockwave, his ears ringing until the world became a dull, muffled roar.
Two adjutants desperately dragged his limp body upright.
Then he saw it.
A tank smashed through the remains of the wooden hut.
Its turret turned slightly left, and its machine gun carved a menacing line across the ground. The rifles raised by the guards were instantly knocked from their hands and clattered uselessly at their feet.
The tank did not even bother to stop.
It drove straight through.
Karafl staggered to his feet and looked out through the shattered doorway.
Across the flat ground beyond the headquarters, roaring mechanized vehicles were everywhere.
No cavalry charge.
No marching columns.
No neat infantry line advancing under flags.
Only iron machines.
Tanks. Armored personnel carriers. Trucks. Motorized infantry moving with terrifying precision.
The Polish soldiers who had not even finished assembling raised their hands almost by instinct.
Had Germany not been militarily stagnant for ten years?
Where had these things come from?
Karafl had no time to think.
Two armored personnel carriers rolled to a stop before him. The doors opened, and several German officers stepped down.
One of them was younger than Karafl expected.
He wore a black military uniform, his expression calm and almost indifferent. He glanced at the ashamed commanders of the First and Second Battalions, who had been missing for hours, then gestured for them to translate.
The Polish battalion commander swallowed hard and spoke in a hoarse voice.
"Divisional Commander… he is asking for the detailed deployment maps of the surrounding area."
Karafl turned his head away, unwilling to surrender the last trace of dignity so easily.
"First, tell me your name."
The German officer looked at him.
His voice was low and steady.
"My name is Erich von Manstein."
He stepped closer.
"If you want to live, tell me everything you know."
.....
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