Chapter 203: The Hunter Pulls the Trigger
Berlin.
The red brick buildings of the General Staff were buried beneath meal boxes, maps, cables, and smoke.
People moved everywhere.
Walking, running, typing.
Orderlies carried folders through narrow corridors. Staff officers in black uniforms hurried from one office to another with telegrams clutched in their hands. Typewriters hammered without pause, their metallic clatter merging with the constant ringing of telephones.
Although the building complex had more than doubled in size over the past few years, it was still crowded like an anthill. Black uniformed officers flowed through it like disciplined insects, every one of them carrying some fragment of Germany's war machine.
Of course, the lowest rank visible here was still a junior officer.
Ordinary soldiers had only one right in this place, the right to stand straight and salute.
In the underground operations meeting room, Jörg sat at the head of the table and listened to the General Staff's weekly military summary.
A large map of Poland occupied the wall. Red arrows stabbed deep into enemy territory, like blades already buried in flesh.
The staff officer responsible for the report stood before the map and spoke in a crisp voice.
"Commander in Chief, of the three major cities in western Poland, Katowice, Wrocław, and Poznań, the first two have already been captured by our forces. According to the latest battle reports from the front, Poznań is expected to fall completely by tomorrow."
He moved his pointer northward.
"In the Danzig and East Prussia sectors, the Polish Third Army, composed of the Eighth Army and the Sixteenth Army, has engaged in heavy firefights with our forces along the border under General von Rundstedt's command. The Poles have transferred nearly all garrisons previously stationed along the Soviet Russian border in an attempt to slow our advance toward Warsaw."
The officer paused and turned a page.
"According to front line reports, our current casualties are two thousand dead and more than three thousand wounded. Tank losses remain minimal. Only five aircraft have been lost, mostly due to individual pilot errors."
He continued, his tone becoming colder.
"Poland has over sixty thousand men captured. Their total casualties are still being calculated, but we estimate that the Polish Air Force has been completely destroyed. Direct losses among their ground and air personnel have already exceeded one hundred and fifty thousand."
Jörg's fingers tapped lightly against the table.
"Minimal tank losses?"
His gaze lifted from the report.
"Did they not lay minefields along the border? And several defensive belts?"
The staff officer responsible for the report tried to suppress the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Commander in Chief, the Poles... dismantled their own minefields."
For a moment, the meeting room fell silent.
Then he added, "We also found their original December offensive plan in archives they failed to burn completely."
At that, even Jörg smiled.
He had expected Poland to try something. He had not expected them to be this audacious, or this careless.
The campaign had progressed rapidly. Only seven days had passed, and the international community was only just beginning to understand what had happened.
Germany's silver blade had nearly split Poland in half.
"Hand the offensive plan to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs," Jörg said calmly. "Everything else proceeds as usual."
Meanwhile, Warsaw.
President Mościcki crumpled the newspaper in his hand and hurled it into the wastebasket.
The Germans' ability to twist facts was truly damnable.
They were the ones who had struck first. Yet now, with a few captured operational plans in their hands, they were pinning the crime of provoking war on Poland.
On him.
God.
Now he had become the sinner cursed by international public opinion.
What left him even more speechless was Italy.
Italy had not attacked Austria as promised. Instead, Mussolini had first organized an attack on Greece.
Their support for Poland remained at the level of speeches, slogans, and useless diplomatic noise.
France was no better.
What was this supposed to be?
Mościcki swept his arm across the table.
The teacup shattered against the floor.
"Tell the Ministry of Foreign Affairs that we do not admit this war was caused by us," he snapped. "This is Germany's responsibility. It is Roman's responsibility. That man is a war criminal!"
His breathing was rough. After a moment, he turned sharply.
"How is the front?"
The secretary did not answer.
That hesitation alone gave Mościcki the answer.
He had once imagined himself a wolf standing among wolves.
Now he realized he had been nothing more than a damn fool in a wolfskin coat.
"Inform Italy and France," Mościcki said through clenched teeth, "that if they do not organize an attack and take real action, then they can all go to hell. I will no longer waste Polish lives on this hopeless gamble."
At the same time, in France.
Daladier rushed to London overnight.
But Chamberlain, who had been slapped hard across the face by the outbreak of a European war, refused to meet anyone. The French minister had no choice but to make a fruitless trip.
Just as he was hesitating whether to return to Paris immediately, a Rolls Royce stopped beside him.
The window rolled down.
A somewhat corpulent middle aged man leaned on a cane inside the car. His expression was composed, but his eyes were sharp enough to cut through fog.
"Mr. Daladier, allow me to introduce myself."
He gave a slight nod.
"Churchill, current Minister of Military Procurement. Would you mind if I had a chat with you?"
Italy.
Mussolini glanced through Poland's telegrams, then waved his hand irritably.
"My elite army has only just boarded the ships for Albania, and he is already screaming for me to attack. What kind of situation is this?"
He slapped the telegram down.
"Can they not resist a little longer? It has only been one week, and they are already giving up? Are the Poles a flock of wild chickens with no will to fight?"
Military adviser Gero Slar asked carefully, "Duce, should we send troops?"
"Send what troops?"
Mussolini's voice rose at once.
"Take Greece first. If the Germans react, the Greek campaign will become a serious problem. As for the border with Austria, provoke them. For the next week, do not actively attack. Maintain a defensive posture."
He pointed toward the map with a thick finger.
"After a week, once the situation in Greece has stabilized, then we send troops. I refuse to believe the Poles cannot hold out for even two weeks."
While every side chased its own calculations, Poland bled.
Poznań, Poland.
The entire Western Front had become like a wild rabbit driven into open ground by a hunter.
Because the Polish Army had invested almost all its energy into offensive tactics, its defensive preparations were pitifully poor. Defensive drills had been neglected. Proper fortification plans had been ignored. The positions around Poznań consisted mostly of trenches and crude barricades.
There was not even a decent concrete bunker to be found.
After the tank units were wiped out, the soldiers could no longer speak of defense.
Most of them had not even seen German ground troops.
For two consecutive days, they endured high intensity bombing and shelling. The Stuka dive bombers screamed down from the sky again and again, their sirens tearing through men's nerves before the bombs tore through earth and flesh.
As soon as that sound appeared, large numbers of soldiers lost all will to resist.
They became beasts that smelled gunpowder and knew only how to flee.
Poznań's defense lasted less than two days.
By noon on the third day, Western Front Command had withdrawn from the city.
By nightfall, the remaining defense force, numbering fewer than forty thousand, began retreating under cover of darkness.
By coincidence, all of this was seen by a Stuka dive bomber using the final glimmer of twilight.
Inside the cockpit, Pilot Pym Hakka adjusted his headset and looked down at the dark columns moving through the broken roads.
"Command Center, we have detected the Polish Army beginning to organize a large scale retreat. Request bombing authorization."
Static crackled in his ears.
"Pilot Pym Hakka, report your exact position."
Pym glanced at the annotated latitude and longitude on his map and read them out clearly.
A moment later, chaotic voices came through the headset again.
"Bombing approved. Two medium bombers will arrive in five minutes. Pilot Pym, prepare night navigation communication to avoid midair collision."
Pym looked down at the retreating Polish columns.
The hunter had found the rabbit.
Now the trigger was being pulled.
.....
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