"Comrades!" a man shouted, his voice carrying even to those standing at the far edges of the vast courtyard somewhere in Bydgoszcz.
When Mikhailiv heard the voice, heavy with authority, he immediately turned to see who it belonged to.
"That's General Sikorski," Ivan whispered. Mikhailiv nodded, recognizing the famous general as well. A man who would one day lead the Polish government in exile. Of course, Mikhailiv, a mere lieutenant, did not know that yet. Instead, he listened intently to what the general had to say.
"Comrades! The German devil has begun the invasion of our homeland. An unjustified invasion, no less," Sikorski shouted. His gaze swept across the mass of soldiers, meeting eyes filled with fear, with anticipation, and even with eagerness.
"Fools," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he looked away, his eyes drifting toward the distant horizon.
"But do not fear. In this hour, our nation does not kneel. The Republic of France and the United Kingdom have declared war on Germany just moments ago. Poland does not stand alone. So have courage, my friends. Have courage and fight. Push back the devil that has invaded our homeland!" he roared, his fist striking his chest.
Many nodded, shouting in response, fists raised high.
Mikhailiv smiled as well.
"Did you hear that? The French and the British will help," he shouted, brimming with enthusiasm. "Did you hear that, Igor?" he asked, patting his friend on the shoulder.
Ivan nodded and pulled Mikhailiv into a brief embrace.
"If we are lucky, we will be home soon. I'll invite you for soup. My mother makes the best, truly," Ivan said, a note of nostalgia creeping into his voice.
Before they could continue, a shrill whistle cut through the noise.
"First Artillery Regiment!" someone shouted.
"Fourteenth Cavalry Division!" another voice called out.
Mikhailiv's eyes lit up at the sound. He nodded once to Ivan, who headed off in another direction. Pushing through the crowd, Mikhailiv pressed onward until he saw it.
His horse.
Mikhailiv had always been a passionate rider. Back on the farm, they had owned horses as well.
Kalan, he thought, his mind drifting to his hometown horse and inevitably to his family. The sharp smell of manure pulled him back to reality. They are safe in Warsaw, he reassured himself, patting his horse's neck.
"Let's go boy."Mikhailiv said, climbing onto the unknown war horse he had received.
Now on top the horse he could overlook the large crowd and for a second his eyes lit up.
"Ivan?"He said out loud, but in the next moment he sighted, having lost the sight of his friend...
"Ivan?" the man asked, his uniform identifying him as a lieutenant as he looked up from his notebook. "Krascovic?"
"Yes, sir," Ivan said, snapping to attention.
"What are you waiting for?" The lieutenant looked up again when Ivan had not moved an inch, a questioning expression on his face.
He sighed.
"Go. Grab a rifle and ammunition. You get one grenade too," the officer barked.
Ivan hurried in the direction he was pointing, selecting a rifle and some ammunition just as ordered. But when he searched for grenades, he found none.
"Sir?" Ivan asked, nervous.
"What?" the officer snapped, turning around.
"There are no grenades."
"There are… well, then there aren't. Why are you mumbling around here? Go and assemble!" the lieutenant shouted, already turning back to his notebook.
Ten minutes later, the lieutenant stepped forward.
"My name is Lieutenant Lubvil!"
He stroked his mustache before continuing.
"I served in the Great War and survived. I fought in the Polish–Soviet War and survived. And I will participate in this one too. Of course we will survive this one as well."
"At least I will," he muttered, barely audible, before raising his voice again.
"We're heading to the front. Man those trucks. Squeeze in as tightly as you can," he shouted, pointing toward several old military trucks already idling.
From the Great War as well? Ivan thought, though he dared not voice it.
Soon the trucks rolled forward. Not just theirs, but countless others, all moving in the same direction. West. And it was not only engines that could be heard. Footsteps of men and horses echoed through the streets of Bydgoszcz.
Although the ride was uncomfortable and the road riddled with potholes, Ivan somehow managed to doze off.
Then he snapped awake, gripping a metal bar as the truck suddenly accelerated and began swerving wildly.
"Ah," Ivan groaned as the truck lurched sharply, his torso slamming into the side.
"It's an air raid!" one of the soldiers shouted, craning his head out of the truck.
Ivan's eyes widened as he clutched his rifle, the truck jerking hard to the right.
"Get down!" an officer yelled.
Ivan curled up instinctively, like a cornered animal. Almost immediately, a terrifying siren wailed above them. The roar of propellers grew louder, followed by gunfire.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ivan saw the earth erupt behind them, where they had been moments before. The impacts were getting closer.
"Fuck!" a soldier near the back screamed, just before bullets ripped through the canvas above them, tearing it apart and drilling countless holes into the men in the rear.
Blood sprayed across the truck. Ivan remained crouched, shaking, frozen in place.
Then the gunfire stopped.
A shadow passed over them as the truck slowed abruptly, grinding to a halt.
For a moment, there was only ragged breathing. A bead of sweat fell onto the metal floor, the sound sharp in the silence, a grim reminder of who was still alive.
Thick smoke began to seep inside.
"Cough, cough."
"Come on, we have to get out of here," a soldier shouted, covering his mouth.
The survivors scrambled out of the truck, only to find Lieutenant Lubvil standing nearby.
"You're alive. Good. Good," he muttered.
Suddenly, loud rustling came from the trees.
The group raised their rifles at once. Ivan's trigger finger trembled.
"Are you the reinforcements from the Fourteenth Infantry Battalion?" an officer asked, stepping out from behind a tree, his face smeared with dark mud.
"Yes, sir," Lieutenant Lubvil replied, saluting. The man appeared to be a major.
"Good. We've established positions a hundred meters west. Move," the major said impatiently.
"But sir, isn't the front line still fifteen kilometers away?" Lubvil asked, confused.
"Hah. Fifteen kilometers? Yes," the major laughed. "That was two hours ago."
Lubvil opened his mouth to speak, then stopped, glancing back at his men. "Yes, sir."
"Come on, men," he said, turning toward Ivan and the others.
After a short walk, they reached the hastily erected positions. Hastily, because many soldiers were still digging, their superior officers barking orders as if shouting alone could make the earth move faster.
Machine gunners were setting up their weapons, masking the barrels with leaves and bushes for cover. Then a truck arrived, its bed stacked high with sandbags.
"What are you standing around for? Unload those bags!" Lubvil barked.
Ivan ran toward the truck with the others, each of them heaving a heavy sack and carrying it toward the trenches.
If the last position, far better reinforced, hadn't held, then how can this… Ivan thought, a shiver running down his spine.
He refocused on the sandbag in his arms as it slipped dangerously close to falling. Just before he reached the trench, something caught his eye. Something dark, moving.
He lifted his head, squinting into the distance.
His unusually sharp eyesight had saved his life more than once. Today, it would again.
The sandbag slipped from his grasp.
"Krascovic!" the lieutenant's voice rang out behind him. "Already tired?!"
Ivan didn't move. His legs were frozen in place.
"What is it?!" Lubvil shouted, now right beside him. Ivan could only raise a trembling hand and point toward the horizon.
"Hm?" The lieutenant stepped forward, then his eyes widened.
"TANK!" he shouted.
For a heartbeat, the trenches fell silent.
Then an explosion tore reality apart. Earth erupted skyward, flinging two soldiers with it, their blood spraying through the air.
"TAKE COVER AND RETURN FIRE!" the major roared.
But Ivan only shook his head faintly, his mind numb. Slowly, he turned, explosions tearing the ground apart all around him.
Behind them, countless tanks filled the horizon. Dark gray silhouettes, everywhere, maneuvering effortlessly through the trees.
Then a strong hand entered his field of vision.
"Where are you going?!" the major shouted, pistol raised. "Either we win, or we die together!"
Ivan's eyes widened. He turned once more, giving the major a final glance before raising his rifle and sprinting toward the nearest "safe" trench.
He barely made it, sliding down into the half finished tunnel. Beside him, a machine gunner was firing relentlessly, the weapon roaring under the strain, empty shells piling up in the mud beneath.
Ivan slowly lifted his head and placed his rifle on the edge of the trench, mimicking the soldier beside him.
He assessed the situation.
Behind the tanks, Wehrmacht infantry advanced, crouched low, jogging forward while using the armored hulls as moving cover.
Bullets erupted from their submachine guns, pouring into Ivan's trench. The soldier next to him suddenly collapsed, a gaping hole torn through his head.
Ivan clenched his teeth, sweat streaming down his face, and fired back. His gaze flicked to the old wooden rifle in his hands, then to the German soldiers with their black submachine guns.
His jaw ached under the pressure as he fired again and again. Some shots vanished into nothing. Some sparked uselessly off steel. Sometimes, they found flesh.
It did not matter.
The armored tide kept coming closer. His ammunition grew thinner with every breath.
"Fuck!" Ivan shouted as a tank turned directly toward his position.
Dozens of tanks crashed into the Polish lines. After pulverizing them with fire, they simply rolled over what remained, mercilessly.
Ivan saw Wehrmacht soldiers leaping into a trench eagerly in the distance.
So he ran.
He sprinted with everything he had.
Gunfire erupted around him. Soldiers fell behind him, beside him, ahead of him, cut down one by one, slaughtered like livestock.
Then, rounding a corner, he saw two German soldiers, their heads turned away.
Without thinking, Ivan raised his rifle and fired, punching a round through the first man's chest.
"Scheisse!"
The second reacted instantly, swinging his submachine gun up. Ivan was faster. His finger crushed the trigger.
A last round of gunfire tore through the air.
Ivan was thrown backward, clutching his bleeding shoulder as he hit the ground.
He groaned in pain, pressing hard against the wound as he forced himself back onto his feet. But then a new agony tore through his torso, sharp and sudden.
He looked down, only to find another hole, blood leaking freely from it.
Ivan staggered forward, reaching the end of the trench. He climbed out, leaving behind a thick trail of blood that pooled together with countless others in the churned earth.
He limped on, driven by the last scraps of strength he had left. What he did not notice was how quiet everything had become. A loud ringing filled his ears, drowning out the world, and his eyes fixed only on the light ahead, the edge of the forest he was so desperately trying to reach.
He passed another body on the ground and recognized the face.
The major.
Gradually, the ringing faded. Ivan stopped, gasping, only a few meters from the treeline. His legs gave out and he sank to his knees, his grip loosening as strength slipped away.
Then, in the stillness, he heard footsteps behind him.
With the last of his energy, he turned his head slightly.
His eyes, once so sharp, were now clouded with blood, yet he could still make out the silhouette of a tall man. He wore a pristine Wehrmacht uniform, his black hair fluttering in the rising wind.
Ivan saw the man raise something.
Then darkness.
The pain was gone.
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