Mila 18 - Leon Uris [47]
Styka began to cry, something Andrei had never seen him do. “Captain, sir. We have fought the best we know how. We have not disgraced ourselves.”
A sudden dizziness overcame Andrei. He pitched into Styka’s arms, then pushed himself free and stumbled into a chair.
Seven days and their war was over. Their fine beautiful brigade pulverized into a disorganized bloody pulp. The vision of the glazed eyes of the soldiers came to him, and he saw the line of thousands of corpses stretched beside the road outside Torun after their cavalry charge and the fields of lifeless horses.
The memory of battle ran together without day or night, beginning or end. The smells and the burns and the agonies. Kicking men to their feet to fire one more round ... one more round ... ear-splitting shellbursts and the tank treads cutting into walls of flesh and the cries of the wounded.
... The little village north of Rypin. What was its name? He had organized fifty strays for an attack. They stopped in the village for water. The children ran out of the school into the village square to cheer them. The priest came out and the women came out with bread in their hands.
No one heard the airplane, it came so fast Rat-a-tat-rat-a-tat—and it was gone, and five children lay bleeding in the square. The priest knelt over them, saying prayers, and the women wailed. The little girl dead, clutching the ragdoll. Rat-a-tat—and planes came in again.
“We have fought with honor,” Brigadier Zygmunt Bozakolski said. “I am surrendering the Seventh Brigade. I expect you gentlemen to conduct yourselves as Ulany officers.”
The prison pen. The accordions of barbed wire. The crisscross of German guards. “Styka, as soon as night falls we are going through the wire and swim the river.”
“I’m with you, Captain.”
Styka fell on the wire and made himself a human bridge, and the other five ran over the top of him. He followed after them. When they reached the riverbank the air was filled with whistles and sirens and shouts in German.
Flashlights probed the darkness.
The river was swift and pulling them back to shore. The lights streaked over the water. Blam! Blam! Swim for your life! Swim for your life!
A scream! One of them hit. He is dragged by the current like a limp rag.
“I’m going under, Captain. I can’t make it.”
Styka gurgled and thrashed hopelessly. “Relax, Styka—relax.” Andrei’s hand was under his chin, his free arm driving at the water.
“I’m drowning! I’m drowning! Mother of God!” Styka screamed.
“Stay calm, you son of a bitch ...”
Andrei pulled him up on the bank and knelt over him and pumped the water from his lungs and slapped his face until he came around.
... And then ... what happened then?
Andrei looked up. The peasant and his wife. The doctor. And Styka, crying.
“If you wish to surrender, Sergeant, you have my permission.”
“What about you, sir?”
Andrei shook his head.
“You are a damned fool!” the doctor said.
“Then I guess I am a damned fool too,” Styka said.
“You’re going with him? You know he can’t make it. Why?”
Styka tried to think. It was hard for him. He shrugged. “Because he is my captain,” he said.
Chapter Twelve
FOR THE FIRST FEW days after the war began, England and France desperately tried to get the German army to withdraw, ready to impose another Munich sellout on Poland.
When Germany refused, England and France had to do what they should have done years before; they declared war. With Poland’s doom more certain each day, the British and French embassies in Warsaw turned over much of their papers and duties to the neutral Americans.
The Americans were short-staffed, but the spirit remained excellent even with extra burdens.
Well into the second week, complete catastrophe for Poland was evident.
Gabriela left the Embassy after a shift of fourteen hours. Thompson insisted she get some rest Instead, she got one