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

dancing in his eyes. A truck exploded in Night of Flames
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    a searing blast and disappeared into a smoking crater, littering the road with smoking bits of steel and charred body parts. Schmidt went rigid. His stomach heaved, trying to vomit but nothing came out. Thundering detonations and bursting fl ashes of light closed in around him, pounding him down. A shower of broken glass cascaded over him, and he wrapped his arms over his head, whimpering, waiting for the blast that would bury him.
    Schmidt didn’t know when the shelling stopped, the constant drumbeat in his head indistinguishable from the bombardment. But gradually, new sounds drifted in: crackling fi re, men shouting, gunshots. He lifted his head and peeked around. Black smoke billowed from the burning truck. A motorcycle roared past then spun off into the ditch. He tried to get up, but he was frozen, his legs turned to lead. Three rifl emen sprinted down the road and ducked between the houses. One of them stopped and looked down at him. Schmidt recognized him, an unteroffi zier from his battalion. He had bummed a cigarette from him the day before.
    “ Raus! Raus! Get the hell out of here!” the rifl eman shouted. “They’re coming through the meadow!” Then he was gone.
    Schmidt tried again to get to his feet, but fell back against the brick wall.
    He couldn’t breathe. On his butt, he squirmed backward along the base of the house and pulled his knees tight against his chest. When he saw them he pissed in his pants.
    Like spirits emerging from hell, the Polish troopers charged out of the meadow, screaming and shouting, bayonets and sabers glinting in the fi re-light. Gunfi re erupted from every direction.
    In an instant, they were on top of him, like madmen, stomping over him.
    A heavy boot kicked him in the back, and Schmidt rolled over, trying to get away. Out of the corner of his eye, the last thing he saw was the fl ashing blade of a saber.
    Jan stood in the middle of the road leading out of Walewice, watching the last of the retreating German soldiers disappear over a hill. He turned to Peracki who leaned against the frame of a wrecked truck, looking exhausted. “Lech, what have you heard about the bridge?”
    “It’s secure, Jan. A runner came over just a few minutes ago with a message from Stefan.”
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    Douglas W. Jacobson
    Jan sighed and put a hand on Peracki’s shoulder. He guessed the young offi cer wouldn’t be complaining any longer about missing the action. “Get a detail to go through all these houses and shops,” he said. “Squadron commanders will meet on the bridge at 0800.”
    Peracki nodded and walked away.
    Jan wandered back through the now-quiet town. Dead bodies were everywhere. Just boys, he thought. Polish and German boys, distinguishable only by the color of their soiled uniforms.
    Smashed and burning vehicles littered the streets, along with some that were completely intact, abandoned by the German troops in their frantic retreat. His men were already attending to the wounded and setting up a makeshift fi eld hospital. A few of the townspeople had emerged from their homes, looking frightened and tentative, but joining in to help. The artillery squadron rumbled in from the meadow, the big horse-drawn howitzers maneuvering around the craters and debris.
    Jan leaned against the side of a building and removed his helmet, rubbing his eyes. Three wagons rolled past, bringing in more wounded from the meadow. The dead ones were still out there. How many of his men had he lost? He didn’t want to know.
    The pain in his head had returned and his back was sore. He closed his eyes, allowing himself the indulgence of a moment thinking about Anna. The Germans were occupying Krakow, but at least the fi ghting there had ended and he found some comfort in the fact that she was probably safe for the time being. For how long? That was another question. One for which he had no answer.
    A horse-drawn cart creaked past. Three wounded