Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II by Douglas W. Jacobson

the Bzura River, poised for a surprise attack on a weakly defended enemy position. Less than an hour—and now more than a hundred of his men lay dead or badly wounded.
    He shook his head and glanced around at the fl urry of activity. Troopers carrying medical supplies advanced into the meadow, staying low, keeping their heads down. The rest of the regiment were gathering their rifl es, fi xing bayonets and taking up defensive positions. The horses that survived were moved back, out of harm’s way. Peracki and Bartkowicz had things under control. There was nothing to do now but wait for the artillery.
    Jan made his way to the top of a small hill, trying to get a better view of the Mroga River. He could catch only a glimpse, a thin silver ribbon shimmering in the moonlight. He hoped Stefan was out there with his squadron, hunkered down, safe for the moment. Stefan was a good offi cer. He would know what to do. He would know they were bringing in artillery, and he would wait.
    Jan looked at his watch again—0430. The artillery squadron would be here soon. The sky was brightening in the east as he headed back to join his men, dreading the sunrise when he would actually be able to see the extent of the carnage.
    Unteroffi zier Schmidt sat on the ground near his silent machine gun. It had been almost two hours since the Polish cavalry troops had retreated, and his hands had fi nally stopped trembling. The sky was beginning to lighten and he could see a little more clearly, but out in the meadow nothing was moving.
    Willy sat on the other side of the gun, neither of them having said a word for a long time.
    60
    Douglas W. Jacobson
    Schmidt heard Kluge’s voice behind him and turned. The oberleutnant stood a few meters away, talking into a fi eld radio. “ Nein! Nein! I don’t know where they came from,” Kluge said. “They just appeared, charging through the meadow right at us.”
    Kluge was silent for a few seconds then spoke again, his voice louder. “They retreated back to the north. I don’t know what else is out there, but there were several hundred cavalry troops.”
    Schmidt kept watching as the oberleutnant shook his head and looked up at the sky. “We’re still on alert!” Now Kluge was yelling. “I told Muller the same thing an hour ago! Verdammt! The machine guns are already deployed! That’s how we stopped them, but if they bring in artillery we won’t be able to hold them! We’re going to need reinforcements!”
    Kluge ripped off the headset and threw it at the radioman. “Schweinhund,”
    he mumbled. “How would I know where they came from? He’s the genius who keeps saying they’re all heading for Warsaw.”
    Schmidt turned away, but it was too late: Kluge had spotted him. “Hey, Schmidt, you whining little turd, now you know why we set up those guns every night. If you had your way you’d have one of those sabers stuck up your ass!”
    Schmidt looked back, but the oberleutnant had already stormed off, yelling at someone else.
    “What a prick,” Willy whispered from the other side of the machine gun.
    Schmidt glanced at the ammo tender then turned back to the meadow. It was quiet, spooky, the shadowy heaps lying on the ground barely visible.
    He blinked at a sudden fl ash of light.
    The concussion from the blast hammered Schmidt onto his back, pelting him with rocks and clumps of dirt. He rolled over and managed to get to his knees when he was fl attened by another blast. With his mouth full of dirt and his ears pounding, he tried to stand but collided with another soldier and tumbled back to the ground. Then a hand was under his arm and he was on his feet, stumbling across the road. He fl opped to the ground between two houses and crawled against a wall, glancing back toward the meadow as a thundering explosion ripped his machine gun into a thousand pieces. He couldn’t see Willy.
    Schmidt cowered against the brick wall of the house, choking on smoke and dust, a million pinpricks of light