Gunfire echoed through the narrow streets of Warsaw. Every alley, every street, every corner was filled with war, filled to the brim.
"Load the shells!" someone shouted.
Soldiers rushed to obey, moving hastily as they heaved the heavy rounds into position. Leather boots struck stone, slipping on dust and debris.
"Fire!"
The artillery piece erupted in a thunderous explosion, the shell tearing through the night sky.
Only meters away stood a man whose uniform set him apart. More medals. More gold. More authority. Yet the soldiers had grown used to his presence, standing at the very forefront of the battlefield, exactly where he did not need to be.
Paul stood behind the artillery line the Germans had erected along the street, a cigarette burning between his fingers. It was the first time he wore his newly issued uniform. The red on the collar felt almost obscene amid the grey and black of the battlefield.
"Hasso," Paul said quietly.
"Yes," came the flat reply from the man standing, as always, beside him.
"I was promoted to Generalmajor yesterday, wasn't I?" Paul asked without turning. His eyes followed a column of soldiers jogging past, disappearing toward the gunfire.
Hasso studied him for a moment.
"Yes."
Paul turned then, his gaze sweeping the edges of the street. Wounded men lay everywhere. Limbs missing. Eyes gone. Their screams cut through the explosions, especially in the brief lulls between barrages. Medics with red crosses on their uniforms ran past, struggling under the weight of stretchers filled with screaming soldiers.
"Then why do I feel like a foot soldier?" Paul said quietly. "Like the same puppet. The same pawn. Still unable to play the game."
At that moment, another group of soldiers jogged past them, rifles raised, ready to enter the combat zone. Paul paused, his eyes narrowing as they fixed on a single man at the front of the formation.
A major glanced back at him, his face twisted with hatred and barely contained anger.
"Perhaps not as powerless," Paul murmured. "Major… what was his name again?" he asked, nodding toward the man.
"Major Heiter, sir. I did as you asked."
Paul inclined his head, offering the major a thin smile.
"So," Paul said calmly, "where were we?"
"We are winning," Hasso said, though his tone contradicted the words.
"In the wrong way," Paul replied, shaking his head.
"The Russian way," a familiar voice added behind them.
Paul and Hasso turned.
It was Rommel, wearing the same uniform Paul did. Fresh. New. Almost untouched by the grime and dust of the streets.
"Oh," Rommel said lightly, brushing dust from his collar. "Seems I received a similar letter."
"Congratulations," Paul replied, shaking his hand.
Rommel nodded, then let his gaze wander across the ruined street.
"We are fighting like the Russians," he said. "Pretending we have endless hordes waiting at home."
"Indeed," Paul nodded. "A rather fitting analysis."
His eyes flicked to the paper in Rommel's hand.
"Oh," Rommel said, noticing the look. "Orders."
Paul raised an eyebrow.
"I managed to persuade the old generals to authorize a mission," Rommel continued. "We will take our newly formed divisions and attempt to encircle the city."
Paul let out a short breath, almost a laugh.
"How in the world did you manage that? For once, an order that actually makes sense."
Rommel smiled faintly. "Sometimes you just have to talk long enough."
He looked at Paul expectantly.
Paul answered with a skeptical stare.
Rommel sighed. "Fine. Manstein applied pressure on Keitel." He raised the paper so Paul could read it.
Encirclement of Greater Warsaw. Destruction of supply routes.
"Something we should have done from the beginning," Paul said quietly.
For the first time in days, his eyes gleamed with something close to excitement.
Two hours later,
the German tanks greeted their new adversaries with thunderous explosions. One by one, the steel giants emerged from behind the houses on the outskirts of Warsaw, rolling over the grasslands.
"Forward," Paul commanded, accelerating the assault.
The tanks pressed onward. The Polish positions on a small hillside fired desperately at the approaching machines.
Then something happened on the Polish side. Shouts and sudden movement. A large cannon was revealed as the tarp covering it was ripped away. Soldiers ran forward, grabbing shells and quickly adjusting the piece.
"Spread out!" Paul shouted into his radio.
His tanks immediately scattered, taking evasive positions, yet their continuous fire did not falter, grinding down the Polish trenches.
Soon, Polish artillery opened fire, but it was almost too late. Many German tanks were already within a few hundred meters, in range of machine guns that were little more than toys against their armor.
"Fire! Come on!" a Polish officer shouted, pointing at the oncoming tanks.
The anti-tank gun did not disappoint. A deafening explosion erupted as a shell struck one of the German Panzer II tanks. The hull disintegrated violently, flames engulfing any survivors inside.
Paul did not glance at the wreck. He only commanded, "Onwards."
The first tanks slammed into the positions with devastating effect. Some soldiers panicked, fleeing only to be crushed under the heavy tracks, meeting a fate beyond imagination. Those who remained in the trenches fared slightly better, though many in shallower positions were still struck down.
More and more tanks rammed the Polish lines, destroying everything in their path. The assault continued relentlessly until the tanks came to a halt and turned.
From the other side, trucks screeched to a stop, disgorging hundreds of Wehrmacht soldiers to storm the lines, a maneuver Paul had used often. The infantry pushed forward, driving the surviving defenders back, yet only death awaited them.
And it came as expected.
Dozens of Polish soldiers fled the trenches, but German machine-gun fire allowed no escape. Soldier after soldier was cut down. Some tried to turn, only to be met by bullets from German soldiers who had already infiltrated the positions.
After leaving steel and blood behind, the tanks carved a path of destruction, pushing the defenses further and further back. Paul advanced again, ruthless and relentless, and now, with the backing of the Luftwaffe, he had no fear of a surprise attack.
On the other side of Warsaw, the same scene unfolded. Generalmajor Rommel pierced the lines almost as quickly as Paul, his maneuvers equally impressive. Both tank divisions tightened the noose around the Polish forces and their capital.
The news of the fearsome duo soon reached not only the ears of the German generals, but also those of the Polish command.
Headquarters of the Polish army
Pieces of paper littered the floor. Officers rushed through the chaos, shouting words that everyone had already heard that day.
"Burn. Burn. Burn."
Countless stacks of vital documents were thrown out of the windows. The pieces swirled through the air, forming brief patterns before landing in the scorching courtyard. There, hands snatched them up, crumpled them, and tossed them into metal containers. Flames devoured every piece, every line, every word. The ink itself was eaten away. History itself was erased.
Above, two floors up, a double door remained half open. Shouts poured out of the room.
"Rommel and Jeager have us at the neck!" the Marshall shouted, glaring at the man before him.
Władysław Sikorski, the Polish Prime Minister, stared back with madness in his eyes.
"I know that!" he shouted, hammering his fist onto the table, already dented from earlier blows.
"Send the armored battalions! We cannot risk encirclement this early!"
"The armored battalions?" the Marshall exclaimed. "They are needed for the city's defense!"
"The Germans use tanks, so should we. Let the soldiers fight. The new reservists will do," Sikorski answered, fixing the Marshall with an expectant gaze.
"The old men?" the Marshall asked, dripping with sarcasm.
For a moment, both men froze. The damp shouts from the courtyard seeped through the door gap, filling the room.
"Fine. Jeager and Rommel must be stopped, but we cannot stop them both. Dividing our forces would be disastrous. Our only chance, fleeting as it is, is to send the full force. Perhaps we can finally repel an attack."
"Which one?" the Marshall asked coldly, his eyes scanning the map.
"Throw a coin. How should I know?" the Prime Minister snapped, rubbing his temples as his eyes darted dangerously through the gap.
"Jeager," Marshall Śmigły-Rydz whispered, following the Prime Minister's gaze with anger. He knew exactly what this man was planning, yet he could not change it. Someone had to stop the tank divisions, but not for the reasons the Prime Minister had.
Fleeing.
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