Chapter 202: No More Peace
After Hindenburg's funeral, time slipped quietly into September 1st.
At a manor on the outskirts of Berlin, Jörg stood alone before his desk.
The Iron Cross medal Hindenburg had personally bestowed upon him lay in his palm. Its surface had been meticulously cleaned, the old metal reflecting a cold, restrained gleam beneath the lamplight. For a long while, Jörg simply looked at it, as if seeing not a decoration, but the hand of the old marshal placing it upon his chest years ago.
Then he closed his fingers around it.
A moment later, he placed the medal back into its case, stood, and walked to the long table where his trusted aides were already waiting.
The document had been prepared.
There was no passionate speech.
No dramatic declaration.
Only the quiet sound of a fountain pen gliding across paper.
With one signature, peace ended.
At the Polish border.
Inside the barracks, Akalov Wilhelm was grinning like a fool as he read a letter from his son.
His bunkmate, Panzer IV commander Derian Carter, leaned over from the opposite bed and clicked his tongue.
"Wilhelm, wipe that stupid smile off your face. Once we take Poznań, I'll dismantle a piece from a Renault tank and give it to your boy as a souvenir."
Wilhelm, who served as the tank's gunner, folded the letter carefully and waved him off with a laugh.
"Get lost. Have you ever kept a promise in your life?"
The communications officer, seated nearby, closed the emergency manual with a smile. He tore open a pack of Blue Bird cigarettes and passed them around.
But before anyone could properly enjoy them, a crisp whistle suddenly cut through the barracks.
The lazy atmosphere vanished in an instant.
Beds creaked.
Boots struck the floor.
Jokes died on men's tongues, replaced by the rapid rhythm of soldiers moving to their positions.
Two days later.
The border town of Fronki stood before them.
Backed by Poznań and shielded in front by a river, Fronki had become one of the most important fortresses along the border because of its favorable terrain. The Polish Army jokingly called it the "Iron Crotch," the place that would stop any German thrust into the heartland.
At that moment, Tural, commander of the Polish Third Armored Division, was calmly organizing his operational plan.
The Poles had learned from Germany's earlier wars. This plan was not as reckless as previous armed confrontations. Rather than charging forward in blind confidence, Tural intended to grind forward step by step.
"We must coordinate air and ground forces," he said, his finger pressing against the map. "First, destroy the German armored units. Raise the exchange ratio as much as possible. Remember, our objective is not to reach Berlin. Our objective is to apply continuous pressure on Germany with sufficient force."
His finger moved along the line toward the German capital.
"Our proximity to Berlin is our natural advantage..."
Before he could finish, the air raid siren screamed across the camp.
Tural put down the map and looked up.
The moment he saw the sky, his tightly pursed mouth fell open wide enough to swallow an egg.
"My God..."
Countless aircraft swept over the clouds like migrating birds of steel. Their wings filled the sky in dark formations, casting long, flickering shadows over the ground.
Seeing their direction, Tural seemed to understand something. He snatched up the telephone and shouted into the receiver.
"This is Tural of the Third Armored Division. Connect me to the air base at once!"
He did not finish the sentence.
Bang!
A violent explosion shook the command post. Dust burst from the ceiling, the windows shattered, and the telephone line went dead in his hand.
At the same time, telegrams began flooding in from every direction.
Some claimed the capital had fallen.
Some insisted the border defense lines were holding firm.
Some ordered units to lay down their weapons and surrender.
The entire communications system had collapsed into chaos. No one knew which telegram was genuine and which had been planted by German intelligence.
But the distant thunder of artillery was real.
That sound did not lie.
Germany had struck first.
At dawn, Fronki was wrapped in a thin layer of mist.
A sloped armor Panzer IV slowly advanced toward the bridge spanning the river. Inside the tank, the communications officer pressed his headphones closer and spoke in a low voice.
"041 is reconnoitering the bridge."
A reply soon came through the static.
"091 received. We are on your flank, covering the infantry crossing."
Another voice followed.
"081 received. You are in sight. Fire support can be provided at any time."
Derian leaned toward the internal speaking tube.
"Wilhelm, adjust the gun barrel to the center position."
Wilhelm's nerves were stretched to the limit. He slid a lozenge under his tongue, his eyes glued to the sight.
"I haven't found the target! Damn it, Derian, this fog is thick as hell."
"I know," Derian replied. "That's why if you wait until you see something before adjusting, we'll already be dead."
The tracks pressed forward.
The steel bridge groaned beneath the weight of the tank.
The moment they reached the center of the bridge, Derian pushed the engine to maximum speed.
The steel beast beneath them let out a piercing roar and lunged forward.
The mist was torn apart by the wind stirred by their charge.
For one brief instant, visibility opened.
Derian's eyes snapped to the periscope. His voice exploded through the compartment.
"Damn it! I see it! Two o'clock! Fire, Wilhelm, fire! He's seen us!"
Before he even finished, the Renault light tank hidden in the fog fired first.
Whoosh.
Bang!
The shell struck the ground in front of the Panzer's tracks, blasting open a muddy crater. Wet earth and broken stone splattered across the armor like rain.
The next second, Wilhelm completed his adjustment and fired.
The shell screamed from the barrel.
It flew just over the top of the enemy turret.
"Damn it, too high!" Derian roared. "He's trying to retreat. Chase him!"
Wilhelm forced down the tension rising in his chest. He repeated the firing parameters under his breath like a prayer while signaling the loader to reload.
The Panzer IV pursued the retreating Renault through the fog.
Only when they reached a crossroads did Derian realize they had been lured into a trap.
Two Renault tanks emerged from the left and right, preparing to sandwich them.
From the distance, German infantry carrying PZ anti-tank rocket launchers took aim at the Renault on the left.
Bang!
The rocket punched through the tank's weak armor and ignited the inside. The Polish driver, his uniform burning, forced open the hatch and stumbled out, sprinting wildly through the fog in a desperate attempt to escape the flames devouring him.
He ran straight into the path of the reversing Panzer IV.
The tracks rolled over him without slowing.
At the same time, using the fleeting gap before the fog closed again, Wilhelm fired.
Bang!
The armor-piercing shell struck like a thunderbolt cast down by Zeus upon defenseless mortals.
It punched straight through the driver's compartment. The internal explosion tore through the vehicle, turning the tank frame into a fireball. Its turret flew off like a cracked eggshell and plunged into the river with a sharp hiss of steam.
The Renault that had baited them into the trap was still trying to escape.
Derian exhaled hard, drove the Panzer forward, and shoved the burning wreckage aside. The tank roared as it pounced toward its fleeing prey.
Wilhelm caught the moment the enemy turned.
He fired again.
The shell blasted off the Renault's tracks. The tank lurched upward from the force of the explosion, then lost balance entirely and toppled onto the roadside like an old man whose wheelchair had been kicked away.
Wilhelm was about to finish it with another shot when the driver crawled out of the compartment, stripped off his underclothes, and waved them desperately like a white flag.
Derian was preparing to climb out and accept the surrender.
Then he saw what lay beyond the turn in the road.
A large mass of men was lined up along the street.
There were soldiers everywhere.
Polish soldiers everywhere.
"These three tanks were covering their retreat!"
The communications officer, who also served as machine gunner, squeezed the trigger.
Bullets tore a long line through the mud.
Wilhelm fired at the same time, blasting a crater into the ground ahead of the Polish formation.
Derian kicked open the hatch, climbed out, grabbed his MP submachine gun, and shouted at the top of his lungs.
"Drop your weapons! All of you! I won't say it twice!"
The Polish soldiers hesitated. Some still tried to raise their rifles.
Before they could aim, Tank 081 smashed through the wall of a house and charged directly into the crowd, crushing several soldiers beneath its tracks in a spray of mud, blood, and broken stone.
That sight broke their courage.
Clatter.
Clatter.
Clatter.
Rifles were thrown one after another into the shallow shell craters.
Derian knew they had made a major capture. He opened the Polish Army rank manual, found a battalion commander among the prisoners, grabbed a handful of chocolates, and tossed them to the surrendering soldiers.
Then he turned to the officer.
"Where are the rest?"
The Polish officer swallowed.
"We belong to the Third Armored Division. The Third Armored Division and the remnants of the Fifth and Sixth Infantry Divisions have all withdrawn toward Poznań. We and the three tanks were left behind to cover the retreat."
He knew stubbornness now would only mean death.
The Germans would not be overly concerned with treaties and legal niceties in the middle of a battlefield. If he had been in their position, he would not have cared much either.
"How long ago did they leave?" Derian asked. "Do they have mechanized equipment? Exact direction."
"Less than an hour. As for mechanized equipment... if you mean something like yours, then no."
After a moment of hesitation, the officer pulled out his military map.
"This is their route."
Derian took the map, measured the distance with a ruler, then strode into the communications room. He picked up the headset.
"Connect me to Air Force Support. I need to report a target."
A burst of static answered him.
"Air Support receiving. State your report."
"This is 041 Tank Commander. Three Polish divisions are retreating northeast. Their speed is low. They left less than an hour ago."
"041 Tank Commander, your report has been received. State your current location."
"Fronki town."
Less than ten minutes later, four Stuka dive bombers appeared over the sky.
They circled once above the town, then turned sharply toward the northeast.
The sirens began to wail.
.....
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