Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II (9 page)

“What the hell’s going on?” Schmidt asked.

Buchwald shrugged. “I think these dumb bastards are lost. Get on the truck.”

An hour later, the convoy entered a town situated along a river. The truck hit a pothole and bounced heavily. One of the ammo boxes toppled off the stack and landed on Schmidt’s foot.

“Verdammt!”
he howled and grabbed the metal railing, struggling to his feet.

All he wanted was to get out of this damn thing and get some sleep. He leaned over the side of the truck and looked up ahead as the headlights illuminated a small wooden sign on the side of the road. It read,
Walewice.

It was raining when they fi nally stopped at the north end of the town. The homes and shops all appeared intact, but the town was dark and quiet. Just as in most of the other towns they had entered, the locals seemed to melt into the background. Schmidt was about to jump off the truck when he spotted a group of German soldiers emerge from between two houses and approach the truck at the head of the convoy. A second group appeared as Kluge and two other offi -

cers jumped out of the lead truck.

Schmidt watched as a heated conversation erupted, the offi cers and the soldiers from the town all looking at a map in the headlights of the lead truck. Kluge was jabbing his fi nger at the map, yelling something that Schmidt couldn’t make out. Buchwald and a few other drivers got out of their trucks and wandered over to the group, standing back, listening.

A few minutes later, Buchwald came back to the truck, and shouted, “
Raus!

Raus!
Looks like they fi nally fi gured out where we are. It’s another twenty kilometers to Glowno, so we’re spending the night here and headin’ there in the morning.”

Willy jumped down fi rst, shaking his head. “Maybe in the next war we should bring along somebody who can read Polish.”

“Who the hell are these other guys?” Schmidt asked, as he climbed off the truck.

“Sounds like they’re part of the 210th,” Buchwald said. “Supposedly, they’ve been here a couple of days, guarding the town. Kluge was pretty pissed at them; looks like they were all sleepin’ or just fuckin’ off.”

After seven hot and dusty days, the drizzling rain felt so good that Schmidt 48

Douglas W. Jacobson

just dropped to the ground next to the truck. He lay fl at on his back and let the cool rain wash over his face. He had just closed his eye when he heard a shout from Kluge to deploy the machine guns. He couldn’t believe it. Hell, it was the middle of the night and they were leaving fi rst thing in the morning.

Kluge stomped over shouting at them, “
Fertig machen!
Get off your asses!

Sofort!
” and pointed out a spot overlooking a meadow. Grumbling under his breath, Schmidt helped Willy haul one of the MG-34s into position. Buchwald drove the truck farther down the road, where the other gun crews set up positions closer to a bridge at the east end of the town.

“Make sure you set up that tripod, Schmidt,” Kluge yelled over his shoulder as he walked off down the road.

What a pain in the ass, Schmidt thought. They did this every time they stopped. Kluge’s orders, by the book, no questions. By now, Schmidt knew it all by heart: “All the artillery’s up ahead with the panzers. These 34s are the only thing we’ve got to stop an attack.” Attack? Shit, all the Polish troops were supposedly up ahead, hauling ass to Warsaw. But Kluge was Kluge, and he knew better than to argue.

It was almost midnight when they fi nished the setup. Schmidt and Willy had some cold rice and tinned sausage, and settled down under a tree to get some rest until they had to take over the second watch at 0300.

It seemed to Schmidt as if he had just fallen asleep when he felt someone shaking his shoulder. “Schmidt, get up you lazy bastard, it’s your watch.” It was the gunner from the fi rst crew.

Schmidt sat up and tried to clear the cobwebs from his brain. “Anything out there?”

“
Nein.
Same old shit. They’re all in Warsaw. Fuckin’ Kluge’s just a fanatic.”

Schmidt got to his feet, rousted Willy and walked over to the machine gun.

He sat down on top of one of the ammo boxes and rubbed his eyes, still groggy from the deep sleep he had fallen into. He noticed that the rain had stopped and the moonlit sky overhead was bright with stars. Out in front of them, the wide, fl at meadow sloped gently toward the river on their right. Schmidt looked around. On the other side of the road was a row of simple stucco homes. He wondered about the people who lived in them, guessing they were probably all hiding in the cellars. He decided he didn’t really care.

Night of Flames

49

Willy tapped him on the shoulder. “I’m going to take a piss. Don’t shoot me,” the ammo tender said as he took a few paces into the meadow. When he was fi nished, Willy buttoned up his pants and started to head back. He stopped and turned back, staring into the darkness. “Schmidt!
Komm!
Something’s out there!”

“What is it?” Schmidt asked, getting to his feet and stretching.

“I don’t know, I thought I saw some movement out there—or heard something, I’m not sure.”

“Ah, you’re imagining things,” Schmidt said as he came alongside.

Schmidt felt it before he saw it—a slight tremble that rippled up from the ground and through his boots. He glanced at the ground then back into the meadow. He squinted. Then he saw it. It was just barely visible, a thin line of moving shapes spread out across the entire width of the meadow. He blinked.

The shapes were still there, now larger, moving toward them.

“
Meine Gute!
Horses!” he sputtered. “It’s cavalry, holy shit!” He stumbled backward and tripped over Willy, who was staring into the meadow, his mouth hanging open. “Get to the gun!” Schmidt yelled. He grabbed Willy by the arm and shoved him back toward the machine gun. “Get up! Get up!” he yelled to the other gun crew who were just settling in for some sleep. “It’s cavalry! Get Kluge!
Schnell! Mach schnell!
”

Schmidt scrambled behind the machine gun and grabbed the handle. He looked down the long barrel of the big gun trying to sight in on the shadowy images. They appeared to be just out of range.

Schmidt heard Kluge’s voice shouting from behind, “Hold! Hold!”

He could just make out the riders.

Schmidt’s hands trembled. The horses were getting bigger. He knew he had to wait but, goddamn it, they were getting really close. His eyes blurred and he blinked to clear them.

Kluge yelled, “Fire! Now, Fire!”

Schmidt squeezed the trigger and the big gun exploded into an eardrum-shattering, hammering noise that shut out everything around him. He stared down the fi re-belching barrel, struggling to keep it aimed at the charging horses.

Nothing happened. The horses kept coming. Schmidt could see the riders—

and something glinting in the moonlight.

50

Douglas W. Jacobson

“Christ, they’ve got sabers!” Willy yelled.

The gun blazed away, the smoke burning Schmidt’s eyes, the noise banging his mind into numbness.

The horses began to scatter.

Schmidt was frozen to the handle of the wild, clattering machine, terror building in his heart. He was certain he’d missed them. Then they started to fall. First one, then another and another, the horses crashed to the ground, their legs fl ying wildly, their riders propelled into the air like dolls.

He was no longer in control of the killing machine blazing away at the end of his arms. It had taken on a life of its own. He was just hanging on, no longer hearing or feeling, completely transfi xed by the terrible scene unfolding before him. Horses, now by the dozens, charged into each other and tumbled to the ground. Riders, tossed in every direction, staggered to their feet only to be trampled by another stampeding animal. Schmidt’s heart screamed for them to get out of the way. He closed his eyes unable to continue to witness the carnage.

Willy’s shouting jarred him back into the moment. “
Stoppen Sie! Stoppen
Sie!
Barrel change! Barrel change!”

Without thinking, Schmidt instinctively released the trigger, set the safety lever and rotated the barrel jacket counterclockwise. His glazed eyes fell upon Willy, and he watched the ammo tender slide out the smoking barrel and slide in the spare. But he did not comprehend. It was like watching a slow-motion dream of something he had never seen before. A strange person was doing a strange task that had nothing to do with him.

Willy reached over him and rotated the barrel jacket back into position.

Schmidt did not understand how it happened, but the big gun was fi ring again and horses were falling. He prayed for it to be over.

It seemed like it would never end . . . and then it did. He felt someone’s hands on his shoulders, pulling him back.

“
Stoppen Sie!
Hold fi re! Hold fi re!” Willy yelled.

Schmidt collapsed backward and almost toppled to the ground before catching himself and getting to his knees. His ears were ringing and his hands were numb.

“Kluge called a cease-fi re,” Willy yelled. “They’ve retreated out of range.”

Schmidt turned toward the meadow. The remaining cavalrymen were Night of Flames

51

galloping to the north, disappearing into the darkness. He looked around.

The battalion’s rifl emen had scrambled into positions between the machine guns, and offi cers were shouting orders. Engines fi red up and vehicles began moving.

Above the din, he heard Kluge’s voice. “Machine gunners stay at your posts! Ammo tenders get reloaded! Stay alert! Stay alert!”

As Willy pried open an ammo box, Schmidt looked again into the meadow.

The sight was appalling. Horses stumbled about aimlessly, shadowy images in the night, heads bobbing and tails twitching. Dark heaps lay on the ground.

He couldn’t see them very well, but he could imagine them: not moving, or kicking their feet and raising and lowering their heads.

Among the stricken animals, he knew there were men. He couldn’t make them out but he knew they were out there, crawling away or, like the horses they had been riding, lying in their own blood on the hard ground. They were too far away for Schmidt to hear their cries.

Chapter 8

Justyn sat under a tree in the small orchard, staring down at the brown burlap bag of apples he had been collecting. Of the various chores he had been given, this was his favorite. The orchard was cool and shady, and the branches hung low, within his reach if he stood on his tiptoes. It didn’t take long to collect enough to fi ll the bag.

He picked one of the apples out of the bag and turned it over in his hand, trying to decide exactly where to take the fi rst bite. Justyn liked being here. He felt safe. He bit into the apple with a crunch, and the juice ran down his chin.

That was his favorite part, the fi rst bite. He wiped his chin and leaned back against the tree.

A week had passed since his grandmother’s funeral, but it seemed longer.

That was before . . . before the bombing, and the long drive, and . . . the airplanes. He stared at the apple, watching a drop of juice trickle down the slick red skin. Visions of the funeral fl itted through his mind: old men with black beards and dark coats, women with powdery faces who smelled like fl owers, patting him on the head or putting their hands on his shoulder, telling him what a brave lad he was. It was the fi rst funeral he had ever been to, and he wondered why he hadn’t cried. He cried when they buried Henryk and he wasn’t even a relative. That wasn’t really a funeral. They didn’t even have a rabbi, although his mother told him that Henryk wasn’t Jewish, so they wouldn’t have had a rabbi anyway.

Thinking about Henryk made him remember the attack. He shivered and gripped the apple in both hands. He didn’t want to think about it, but he couldn’t help it. It was just there, in his mind. He remembered Anna spotting the airplanes, then Henryk honking the horn at the wagons in front of them.

Night of Flames

53

Then it was all a blur, the car bouncing through the fi elds and the noise—the noise was the worst, the loud screeching noise. He had covered his ears, and then he saw the tree.

How could Henryk have been killed? He was so strong. He remembered opening his eyes and seeing Henryk slumped over the steering wheel. He remembered the blood. Anna was next to Henryk in the front seat, lying on her side, her long red hair soaked with blood.

“Justyn!”

He blinked and looked around.

“Justyn!”

His mother was calling. He stood up, took another bite of the apple and slung the heavy sack over his shoulder. He trudged across the farmyard, past the brick, tin-roofed barn, and headed for the house.

His mother stood on the porch and when she saw him she yelled, “Run and get Mr. Berkowicz! Anna is awake!”

Justyn dropped the apple and the bag in the dust and sprinted toward the toolshed, shouting, “Mr. Berkowicz! Mr. Berkowicz!”

Standing at the door of the toolshed, shuffl ing his feet in the dust, Justyn watched Mr. Berkowicz wipe his tough, gnarled hands on a dirty rag, toss it into a bucket in the corner and pluck a black felt hat from a nail on the wall. As they walked to the house, Justyn felt the reassuring grip of the old man’s hand on his shoulder.

They stood in the doorway peering into the tiny bedroom. Anna was lying on a wrought iron bed underneath the only window, which was propped open to let in some air. It didn’t help much. The room was hot and sticky.

Anna’s face was white, like chalk, and her red hair was plastered to her forehead. Justyn’s mother sat on the edge of the bed, wiping Anna’s face with a wet cloth. Mrs. Berkowicz stood next to the bed holding a pan of water. She was a short, round woman and took up most of the extra space in the small room.

Justyn wiped a tear from his eye as he looked at Anna. He had tried not to think about it, but he realized now that he had been terrifi ed she would die, too. The doctor Mr. Berkowicz had fetched from the town that fi rst day had said something about a concussion, that there was nothing he could do and they would just have to be patient. Justyn held his breath as Anna lifted her head and looked around the room. Her eyes seemed glazed and distant. She started to say something then fell back on the pillow.