Chapter 206: No One Sleeps in Warsaw Tonight
At the same time, under the cover of uniform artillery fire, the Street Fighting Blood Wolves changed into their new field uniforms and began the assault on Warsaw's outer districts.
Compared with other Wehrmacht uniforms, theirs carried a distinctive mark on the shoulder, a blood-colored wolf's head, its jaws half open, its eyes sharp and feral.
Every time the division captured a city, another knife scar was added beside the wolf.
From the deep waters of Danzig to the blood for blood vengeance of Prague, every mark was a battle record, a wound, a trophy, and a warning.
The scars of war did not weaken the Blood Wolves.
They fed them.
They made the Blood Wolves swell with pride.
They made the Blood Wolves grow.
They received the highest casualty compensation in the entire army. They were issued the best infantry weapons, the newest assault equipment, and the most complete urban combat support in the Wehrmacht.
They were Blood Wolves.
They feared neither death nor ruins.
And now, Warsaw would become the next blade mark on the wolf's hide.
In the eyes of many soldiers, this city was not merely the Polish capital.
It was a prize.
It was the final stronghold of Polish resistance.
It was also, in the rhetoric of the Propaganda Department and the dreams of many ambitious officers, destined to become a new German capital in the east.
Before the camp, the company commander of the First Company of the Street Fighting Blood Wolves stood atop a wooden ammunition crate, his new uniform still clean, his voice sharp enough to cut through the thunder of distant guns.
"Soldiers!"
The rows of men before him stood motionless.
"Poland was once called the third military power in Europe. Its politicians boasted, its generals strutted, and its newspapers dreamed of marching west. Now their heart and brain stand before us."
He turned and pointed toward the dark outline of Warsaw in the distance.
"Go conquer it."
"Go crush it."
His eyes swept over every face.
"Tonight, you do not fight as ordinary soldiers. You fight as Blood Wolves. Sink your teeth into this city. Tear open its walls. Howl at the sky with mouths full of flesh and blood!"
A low growl rose from the ranks.
Then it became a roar.
"Blood Wolves!"
"Blood Wolves!"
"Blood Wolves!"
The artillery answered them.
Late that night, with the sound of German guns rumbling outside the city, Warsaw was urgently mobilized from end to end.
The entire city was brightly lit.
Cowards, speculators, and wealthy merchants had already fled when the war began, leaving behind the stubborn, the poor, the soldiers, the officials, the wounded, and those who still believed that a nation was not just lines on a map.
War had no mercy.
War was a machine.
Under that machine, even underage children had to carry shells nearly as heavy as themselves.
Old men dragged crates of ammunition through school corridors converted into temporary depots. One-armed veterans relearned how to load rifles with their remaining hand. Women no longer worked only as nurses or clerks. They dug trenches, carried stretchers, packed sandbags, distributed ammunition, and learned how to aim through broken windows.
When a great enemy stood at the gate, the distinction between soldier and civilian blurred until it almost disappeared.
The idea of the nation itself was being tested beneath artillery smoke.
Was a concept important?
Perhaps it was worthless.
In the eyes of certain opportunists, opening the gates to Germany might bring better treatment, lower taxes, full stomachs, and perhaps even a future. To them, survival was not shameful. Principles could be folded away like old newspapers.
But for many others in Warsaw, that concept had become their life.
They were Poles.
Not politicians.
Not generals.
Not men who fled by aircraft.
They were the foundation of a nation.
Schools, hospitals, police stations, factories, and barracks were all brightly lit. The slogan of defending Warsaw echoed through the streets until throats turned hoarse.
No one sleeps in Warsaw tonight.
Yet the unity of soldiers, police, and civilians did not mean President Mościcki possessed the heroic ambition to die on the battlefield.
He was no Bectot, the acting president of Czechoslovakia, who had chosen to stand until the end.
Mościcki had climbed too high and sacrificed too much to become a martyr.
To reach the presidency, he had compromised, endured, traded favors, betrayed allies, flattered generals, balanced factions, and survived countless political storms. No one understood better than him how expensive power was.
If he died in Warsaw, he would become nothing more than a corpse.
But if he left Warsaw by aircraft, reached Romania, and then flew to Italy, everything would be different.
When the Allied forces eventually recaptured Poland, he would still be the President of Poland.
He could still continue the splendor of the latter half of his life.
After signing promotion letters for several military generals, Mościcki left the presidential residence in an inconspicuous car and headed for the airport.
The road was not long.
Yet he had never felt it so endless.
The streets were familiar.
Yet tonight, they felt unbearably strange.
Through the window, he watched people singing the Polish national anthem in unison. Their voices were uneven, some loud, some trembling, some already broken by fear, but together they filled the night with a kind of tragic grandeur.
For one brief moment, emotion surged in Mościcki's heart.
He almost wanted to stop the car, step out, and return to the city.
He almost wanted to stand with them.
To fight until the end.
To make his name worthy of this night.
But his adjutant's words crushed that impulse and dragged him back into reality.
"Mr. President, the plane is ready."
The adjutant leaned closer and lowered his voice.
"The troops surrounded in the Łódź direction have detected German fighter preparations. They estimate enemy aircraft may arrive over Warsaw within twenty-five minutes."
"If we do not leave now, we may not get another chance."
Mościcki closed his eyes.
After a moment, he nodded.
At the airport, the aircraft had already been prepared.
Mościcki boarded quickly. The cabin was cold, and the dim lights made every face appear pale and uneasy.
As the aircraft rose into the night sky, he looked down at Warsaw.
The city gradually shrank beneath him.
The lights became scattered stars.
The artillery flashes became brief sparks.
Then the clouds swallowed everything.
Although the warning from the front-line troops was correct, the moment the plane passed over Czechoslovak airspace, radar equipment deployed a few days earlier at a German Army Air Force base detected a small green point moving across the screen.
The operator leaned forward.
"B3219 airliner. Please report your destination."
Static filled the channel.
There was no response.
The radar operator repeated the call.
Still nothing.
The commander of the local air force base stared at the mark on the screen and made his decision without much hesitation.
"Send two fighters after it immediately."
His adjutant hesitated. "Sir?"
"At this hour, coming from the direction of Poland, refusing to respond, and flying toward the east? There is definitely something wrong."
His voice turned cold.
"It is likely carrying government personnel. They will be very valuable to Germany."
The adjutant asked, "What if they land in Ukraine, sir?"
The commander looked at him.
"Even if they land in Moscow, bring them back to me."
Two fighters took off.
To conceal Mościcki's escape, the Polish side had used an ordinary civilian airliner. Its speed was naturally no match for a fighter. Before long, the German planes caught up.
By then, they had already entered Ukrainian airspace.
The first pale light of dawn was beginning to seep into the horizon.
"Return immediately, B3219. I will not repeat myself."
Because of the darkness, only one Bf 109 managed to stay cleanly on the airliner's tail. The other had lost visual contact and was circling wider behind.
Inside the cockpit of the Bf 109, the pilot's nerves were stretched tight.
They were in another country's airspace.
There were no friendly airfields nearby.
He feared being hit by Russian anti-aircraft guns, and he feared even more that Soviet fighters might appear and drive him away before he could complete the mission.
The same tension filled the airliner.
Machine gun bullets skimmed past the fuselage, bright lines flashing through the dim morning sky.
The captain's hands trembled on the controls.
"Mr. President, what should we do?"
Mościcki's face was pale.
He did not want to die here.
After a moment of thought, he said, "Contact Soviet Russia."
The captain froze.
Mościcki's voice grew urgent.
"In the hands of the Soviet Russians, we still have room to maneuver. If we fall into German hands, everything is over."
The airliner began to descend diagonally.
Because the German fighter pilot had received orders from the control center to capture the passengers alive, he did not dare truly shoot the aircraft down. He could only follow closely behind while attempting to contact the nearest Soviet Russian military airfield.
Almost simultaneously, the two aircraft, one fleeing and one pursuing, descended toward an unknown Soviet Russian military base.
The Soviet Russian air force base had already received news that a foreign airliner was attempting an emergency landing. What they had not expected was that a German fighter was following behind it.
That changed everything.
It meant the people aboard the airliner were important.
Very important.
The runway lights were turned on in haste.
The Polish airliner landed first, bouncing once before stabilizing. Moments later, the Bf 109 touched down behind it with far less grace, its wheels screeching as it rushed along the runway.
By the time Mościcki disembarked, Soviet soldiers had already surrounded the aircraft.
Dozens of guns were raised.
Some pointed at the Polish passengers.
More pointed at the German pilot who climbed out of his aircraft.
The pilot raised both hands, then slowly lowered one toward the grenade hanging at his belt.
The Soviet soldiers stiffened.
For a tense few minutes, neither side moved.
Then the second German fighter landed.
Soon after, several bombers and a swarm of German fighters appeared above the Soviet airfield, circling like hawks over a field mouse.
With that confidence overhead, the German pilot finally removed his hand from the grenade and let it drop safely.
The stalemate eased by a fraction.
He spoke in German, his voice steady despite the guns aimed at him.
"They are fleeing Polish military and political leaders."
The Soviet officer narrowed his eyes.
The German pilot continued, "Hand them over to me, and today's incident will be treated as if nothing happened."
He glanced at the civilian airliner behind the Soviet soldiers.
"The aircraft is yours. The report can say that it made an emergency landing and crashed. That would make things easier for everyone."
The Soviet officer said nothing.
The German pilot's tone sharpened.
"If you insist on keeping them, I do not know whether Moscow will reward you for saving a few Poles."
He took one step forward.
"But if the Cheka learns that you neither shot down German fighters nor detained us, and instead had lengthy communication with German military personnel on a Soviet airfield..."
He smiled faintly.
"I believe you and your families will be in serious trouble."
The Soviet soldiers exchanged uneasy glances.
"And we will still have ways to get these people back."
The German pilot extended his hand.
"Do we have an agreement?"
Mościcki did not understand Russian, but he understood German.
He had seen the movement of the pilot's lips. He knew the German was bargaining for him.
Fear seized his chest.
He turned toward the Soviet soldiers detaining him and shouted in desperation, "Do not hand me over! I am valuable! I have great political value! Far greater than whatever conditions he is offering!"
No one answered him.
The commander of the Soviet airfield had rushed over by then. He stared at the German pilot, then at the bombers circling overhead, then at Mościcki.
After repeated deliberation, he waved his hand.
"Today, this incident never happened."
He pointed at the Polish passengers.
"Take them away."
Then he turned toward the mechanics.
"Drag the aircraft out. Dismantle the engine and radio, then blow them up."
Mościcki's face twisted.
"You Soviet fools! Do you know who I am?"
The soldiers seized his arms.
"Do not hand me over! Do not hand me over!"
"Let me go! Let me go!"
His roar rose toward the dawn sky.
For a moment, Mościcki reached for his pistol, wanting to end everything before he fell into German hands.
But when his fingers closed around the grip, he found that he did not have the courage to pull the trigger.
The pistol was snatched away by a Soviet soldier.
A few minutes later, under German and Soviet guns alike, the President of Poland was escorted onto a German aircraft.
Behind him, the first light of morning spread across Ukraine.
And in Warsaw, no one slept.
.....
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