Effective napalm

The German army, still nursing a deep-seated sense of humiliation from the outcome of the First World War, believed fervently that their defeat was not due to military failure but betrayal by a few traitors within their ranks. The invasion of Poland presented them with an opportunity for revenge—a chance distinct from their earlier, less combative maneuvers such as the reoccupation of the Rhineland and the annexations of Czechoslovakia and Austria, and the diplomatic acquisition of Hungary.

Amidst this charged atmosphere, a 150-millimeter field howitzer thundered, its roar echoing across the field. German artillery soldiers, hands pressed against their ears, watched the brilliant flames burst from the muzzle. After each shot, they promptly set about cleaning the cannon, utilizing simple lever machinery to load the shells. Once the breech was closed, the gunner would fire again, sending another shell screaming toward its target. Nearby, another 150mm cannon also belched thick smoke, the force of the blast causing a nearby tree of unknown species to sway violently.

Adjacent to this artillery position lay a small Polish town, where several children lay atop a wall, curiously watching the German soldiers as they busily loaded ammunition and adjusted the artillery angles to more swiftly and accurately strike at the forces of their own country. Along the town streets, a line of Mercedes-Benz trucks and off-road vehicles were parked, including several armored command vehicles from different army divisions. However, the most captivating sight for the local children were the sleek gray-green Leopard tanks, around which they occasionally cheered, seemingly oblivious to the implications of their country's downfall.

This was the general headquarters of the German D Group Army, Admiral Model's frontline command center. Major General Guderian, commander of the German First Armored Corps, stood before Model, detailing his plans for action north of Krakow.

"General," Guderian began, pointing to a large theater map behind him, "my 1st Armored Division continues its northward push in Krakow with the aim of severing the already chaotic Polish Qianshan Army's supply lines."

He gestured to another area on the map, adding, "Additionally, the SS's Third Armored Division is maneuvering to the east of Krakow, effectively encircling the city and cutting off the Polish southern transport line."

"How is the progress?" Model inquired softly, his demeanor amiable as always. He spoke politely, granting Guderian almost independent command, only intervening when absolutely necessary.

Guderian, pointing at various positions on the map, replied, "The SS Panzer Division is here, and here and here we have encountered staunch resistance. However, due to their dwindling ammunition supplies, the Polish defenders are gradually ceasing their resistance. Please forgive my decision, but our precious armored forces should not be squandered on street fighting. This lesson we learned from the Spanish Civil War—it's better suited for sniper teams and grenadiers."

"You are correct, General Guderian," Model nodded, handing over a report. "The Army High Command has ordered your continued advance northward, although they initially commanded you to halt where you are now."

"Sir, if my troops halt now, the Poles could reorganize their defenses. When we resume the attack, it will cost us much more," Guderian protested.

"That's why I plan to let you continue your offensive," Model asserted, pointing to the vast area behind Krakow. "If you maintain your current pace, you can penetrate deep into the Polish hinterland before they can regroup."

Guderian's eyes lit up. Abandoning his original target and instead engaging the more elite Rhodes army would undoubtedly bring greater military glory. "So, straight northward? Do you mean... to cooperate with our forces in the middle to wipe out the Polish Rhodes Army?"

"Yes, I've slightly modified the D Group Army's mission," Model confirmed. "Your forces will take over the attack direction originally assigned to the 5th Infantry Army, while their eastward task will be handed over to them."

On the fringes of Krakow, amid a collapsed building and heaps of rubble, a German MG42 machine gun position was decimating the Polish forces opposite. The machine gun spat out rounds with a sound akin to ripping cloth, its muzzle flashing with a pale red tongue of fire.

"Bullet! Quickly reload!" the machine gunner yelled. As he shouted, two infantry soldiers peeked out, firing their G43 rifles desperately at the enemy. Two Polish infantrymen attempting a rush collapsed in a corner.

On the border defense line in northern Poland, nestled in a corner of the extensive northern fortifications, the air was suddenly split by the deafening roar of artillery. "Boom!" A shell landed near the reinforced concrete bunker, hurling clumps of gravel into the air before settling into a quietude punctuated only by a slowly rising wisp of black smoke. The explosion tore through a section of barbed wire, the severed ends swaying twice before coming to a rest, rendering the already battered position even more desolate.

The limitations of Germany's artillery were starkly apparent on this front. The Modlin Army, stationed in northern Poland, had firmly held its ground within the fortified border defenses, effectively stalling the Prussian Army of East Prussia's attempts at a frontal breakthrough. The largest artillery pieces in the German Wehrmacht's arsenal were 150 mm cannons—adequate for troop mobility and deployment but woefully inadequate against fortified lines.

Within the fortress, a Polish veteran peered through a firing slit at the landscape before him. Beside him, a water-cooled Maktin heavy machine gun was mounted, its ammunition ready and recoil minimal. Behind him, three machine gunners and two auxiliary soldiers huddled in a corner covered with straw, seizing the momentary lull in combat to rest.

The Germans, lacking the firepower to dislodge the Polish defenders, resorted to feigning retreats after probing attacks, hoping to draw the Poles out. Despite the safety of such tactics, their effectiveness was minimal. "The Germans are so patient, are they too embarrassed to fight?" the Polish veteran muttered to himself, chewing on a straw he had picked up, his eyes scanning the horizon through the gaps in the bunker.

Suddenly, a young voice echoed across the trenches. "Someone was injured!" it cried. "Come here! Someone was hit." The occasional effectiveness of German shells was not due to Polish negligence but to the Germans' tactical use of snipers and observers who, well-camouflaged and equipped with radios and provisions, would direct artillery fire whenever the Polish guard was perceived to slacken.

This method of engagement frustrated the Polish defenders deeply. Repeated assaults on suspected sniper nests inflicted casualties on the Germans but at a high cost to the Poles, who eventually ceased such counterattacks, opting instead to endure the provocations without direct retaliation.

Spitting out his straw, the Polish veteran moved out of the bunker, stepping carefully past the resting soldiers and stooping low as he approached the source of the outcry. A medic was already there, tending to a wounded soldier, while another lay beside him, lifeless, his abdomen shattered by shrapnel, his intestines spilled onto the cold concrete.

A young soldier, rifle in hand, stood nearby, watching the medic work, his expression a mix of horror and despair. "How did these two get hit?" the veteran asked, lying down beside him in the trench and glancing toward a nearby, still-smoldering crater.

"They went out together, thought it was too risky to go to the designated toilet area. Decided to squat nearby and have a smoke. Then..." the young soldier's voice trembled as he recounted the events.

"Don't make this kind of mistake! Do you understand?" the veteran chided, his tone stern yet protective. "The dead are in a hurry to meet their maker, but if you're not eager to join them, stay behind the thickest armor and concrete."

"Thank you, thank you..." the young soldier murmured, his eyes wide with a mix of gratitude and fear.

As they turned to head back to their positions, an air defense siren wailed ominously. The veteran looked up, spotting small black dots against the white clouds—enemy bombers. His gut tightened; years of military service had honed his instincts for danger, and they screamed at him now.

Choosing a V-shaped trench for cover, he lay against the cold concrete, watching as the anti-aircraft guns opened fire and the distant rumble of artillery filled the air. Despite their efforts, the guns seemed to have little effect on the German planes overhead.

The Luftwaffe had bombed their position several times in recent days, but thanks to the robust trenches and bunkers, the Polish losses had been minimal. Yet, the veteran couldn't help but think of the wastefulness of the German efforts. Did they not realize that their bombs, like their shells, were largely ineffective against the Polish fortifications?

As these thoughts raced through his mind, the German bombers adjusted their formation amidst the flak, their bomb bay doors opening ominously. One by one, bombs began to drop, falling like rain. The first struck a nearby hillside, where three machine gun bunkers were positioned. Unlike previous bombings, this explosion was different—a fiery burst that sent flames shooting up three stories high, the heat and force of the blast terrifying even the most seasoned soldiers.

The second bomb hit another target, replicating the fiery destruction of the first. Panic ensued as soldiers scrambled from their trenches, only to be engulfed by the flames of subsequent bombs. The veteran, realizing the futility of escape, dove into a crater left by earlier shelling and curled up, covering his head with his hands.

The explosions were deafening, and he felt a searing pain across his back before consciousness slipped away. When he awoke, gasping for breath, he realized he was severely burned. His right hand was useless, his face felt grotesquely swollen, and his uniform was charred. Yet, he was alive—a fact made starkly apparent by the horrific scene around him. Bodies burned beyond recognition, the air thick with the stench of charred flesh and scorched earth.

This was no ordinary incendiary attack. The Germans had deployed a new weapon—napalm, designed specifically to suffocate and incinerate, its flames nearly impossible to extinguish. As the veteran staggered to his feet, he witnessed the agonizing death of the young soldier he had spoken to earlier, now nothing more than a human torch.

Amidst this hellish landscape, a sniper's bullet suddenly struck the veteran, the impact knocking him forward. Struggling, he turned to see a German sniper a hundred meters away, lining up another shot. As the second bullet tore through his throat, the pain from his burns faded, overtaken by a cold numbness.

Meanwhile, at German headquarters, General Catherine received reports of the bombing. An Air Force officer stood before her, detailing the effectiveness of the napalm bombs against the Polish defenses. "The results are quite impressive," he said proudly, suggesting an increase in production for broader strategic use.

"Send a report to the head of state," Catherine commanded, her voice steady, her mind already on the next phase of their relentless advance.