Poland in shambles

The aircraft trembled violently as all the paratroopers stood, checking their gear and securing any loose equipment on their comrades. The persistent flashing of the red lights inside the cabin served as a grim reminder of the perilous journey that lay ahead. The platoon leader's voice cut through the tension, commanding in a loud tone, "Last inspection of equipment! Everyone confirm your parachutes! Ready!"

"Number one! Ready!" came the first response.

"Number two! Ready!"

"Number three! Ready!"

The roll call continued until "Number twenty-five! Ready!" Each paratrooper confirmed their readiness, their voices a mix of determination and apprehension.

Suddenly, the green light flickered on. The platoon leader yanked open the aircraft cabin door, and a rush of cold air invaded the space, whipping around the soldiers. Amidst the chaos, a faint song began to emerge, hummed by an unknown voice. It quickly gathered strength as more paratroopers joined in, their collective voice singing a stirring melody:

"The sun glows red, ready,

Who knows if it will smile at us tomorrow?

The engine starts and works at full power,

Take off and take us on the road,

Today we face the enemy!

Board the plane, board the plane!

Comrades, it's a journey without return.

In the far east, there are black clouds,

Come, don't lose your soul, come!"

The platoon leader's shout snapped everyone back to the present, "Start skydiving!" One by one, the paratroopers stepped into the open sky, their bodies stretching out into the vast expanse. The first paratrooper leapt out, the singing and the noise of the plane replaced by the roaring wind, the only proof of his continued existence.

The paratroopers descended like white flowers blooming in the sky, their parachutes opening one after another, reminiscent of white velvet grass in the Alps. Below, the Polish air defense seemed nonexistent, the sky filled densely with German paratroopers while the ground's response was minimal.

Upon landing, Borol found himself disoriented, his gear scattered by the turbulent descent. Equipped only with a P38 pistol, a military bayonet, and two grenades, he felt woefully underprepared. "What a joke! Where did they drop me?" he muttered, examining his map and surroundings. It was clear he was far from the intended drop zone.

Nearby gunfire hinted at activity, but the sounds were unfamiliar, not the G43 or MP-44 rifles he expected. Cautiously, Borol moved towards a quiet depression in the landscape. There, he encountered another German paratrooper armed with a Panzerfaust rocket launcher. "My God! I almost shot you!" exclaimed the startled soldier.

After a brief exchange, where Borol confirmed his role as the guide for the 2nd Battalion, 2nd Company, and checked the soldier's anti-tank equipment, they discussed their next move. "We need to capture a bridge named Xaar," Borol declared, though he admitted he was unsure of their exact location.

The two set off towards the distant smoke, hypothesizing it marked the village near their target. As they navigated the uneven terrain, they sang softly, their spirits bolstered by the familiar song.

Their journey was abruptly interrupted when four German paratroopers emerged from the underbrush, guns aimed. Quickly identifying themselves, Borol and his companion were relieved when the others lowered their weapons, joking about the need for proper identification.

Together, the group planned their assault on the nearby village, speculated to be under attack by their airborne comrades. As they approached, the evidence of a recent air raid was unmistakable—the town was ablaze, Polish soldiers' bodies scattered amongst the rubble.

Despite the chaos, the paratroopers pressed forward, encountering little resistance as they moved deeper into the town. Sounds of battle suggested not just paratrooper engagement but possibly a rapid advance by German armored forces.

Borol, taking command, directed his makeshift squad with precision. "Anti-tanker, cover us! If any vehicle appears, it's your job to stop it," he instructed firmly. To another, he said, "You, without a weapon, take these grenades and create a diversion with the horses."

As they executed their plan, the town's strategic importance became clear. Securing it would pave the way for the advancing German forces, ensuring a smooth passage towards the critical bridge at Purcell.

The mission was fraught with danger and uncertainty, but driven by duty and the haunting melody of their song, the paratroopers advanced, determined to seize victory in the face of overwhelming odds.

The Polish forces were utterly bewildered. They had yet to fully comprehend the formidable nature of the enemy they faced. On the Eastern Front, they had engaged with a degree of calmness, even managing to push into Soviet territory. However, against the Germans on the Western Front, their organization crumbled.

Take, for instance, the situation facing the 6th Division of the Polish Krakow Army Group, which was positioned opposite the 3rd Panzer Division of the German SS. They had received orders to assemble their troops and advance into German territory. Yet, as Division Commander Garokov rallied his forces, his front-line defenses capitulated. The Polish defenders, barely out of their fortifications and ill-prepared for an offensive, were overwhelmed by the advancing German tanks and armored vehicles. Resistance faltered quickly, leading to their capture or dispersion in disarray. It was only later that Commander Garokov received the dire news: the first line of defense had been breached, and the formidable SS Panther tanks were now targeting his second line.

In response, Garokov decided to consolidate his remaining forces to establish a third defensive line around his division headquarters. He even called upon the cavalry from the reserve unit, hoping to mount an effective defense against the relentless German onslaught.

"Who issued this damned order? Ten hours ago, they wanted us to attack, and now this chaos!" Garokov fumed in his command post. "Are the higher-ups infiltrated by German spies?"

"Contact the Corps Command! Find out what's happening. How could the Germans advance so far in just a few hours?" he barked at his adjutant.

"Sir, the telephone lines are down! We can't reach Corps headquarters," reported an officer, holding the useless phone. "It seems the Germans have cut the lines."

"Send someone to check immediately! Let the cavalry scout the lines. Get our men to bolster the defenses around here. If the Germans have cut our communications, they can't be far," ordered Garokov urgently.

Suddenly, the sound of gunfire erupted outside the headquarters. "What now? Have the Germans reached us already?" Garokov exclaimed, alarmed.

"Go, find out why there's shooting!" he instructed his adjutant, who saluted swiftly and dashed out.

Before long, the headquarters was rocked by a massive explosion. Shrapnel shattered the windows, piercing through two officers who had been peering out, and embedding into the walls amidst a cloud of blood and dust. The blast knocked everyone in the room to the floor, ceilings cracked, and the entire window-side of the building collapsed, leaving an open path to the street below.

Coughing from the dust, Garokov, fortunate to be unharmed, was helped up by a telephone operator. Surveying the devastated command post, he realized their exit was now blocked by debris. The two officers by the window were dead, and another operator lay lifeless, his face bloodied against the desk.

With no time to mourn, Garokov and the surviving operator made their way out of the crumbling building, dropping into a large crater created by the bomb outside. The surrounding area was chaotic, with his troops scattered like sheep amidst continuous explosions.

As Garokov struggled in the crater, a hand reached out to assist him. Once he was on solid ground, he ran with his lieutenant and the operator to take cover. Catching their breath, the adjutant reported, "Enemy bombers overhead, sir. They've started their attack."

Garokov, frustrated and aware of the obvious, refrained from chastising his adjutant, appreciating his effort in the rescue.

"Where are our planes? Why aren't they engaging?" Garokov lamented, looking helplessly at the German bombers circling above like vultures.

"Our anti-aircraft guns are too weak to repel them, sir. It seems they'll leave once they've dropped all their bombs," the adjutant replied, donning a helmet from a fallen soldier. "We should pull back to the outskirts; it might be safer."

Acknowledging the situation was beyond his control, Garokov nodded. As the bombing subsided, he, the adjutant, and the operator made their way to the edge of town, finding a guard company relatively unscathed but reduced to just 30 men.

Regaining some semblance of command, Garokov began coordinating his scattered forces. An hour later, with the German planes gone and his division in disarray, he located the leader of his first regiment. His forces were in shambles, having faced the brunt of the German frontal assault.

"First, get the cavalry to fix the phone lines. Find any working phone to contact Corps Command," Garokov instructed his officers. "Second, gather everyone you can. Set up defenses near this town and check the train locomotives in the warehouse. Make sure they're intact."

He ordered his adjutant to inspect the nearby railroad tracks for damage and to prepare for a potential retreat if the Germans advanced further.

Suddenly, a soldier's shout cut through the air, "Tanks! The Germans are coming!" Before he could finish, a bullet silenced him forever. Panic ensued as more soldiers fell to enemy fire.

"People, get the anti-tank guns ready! Don't just run; fight back!" Garokov commanded, rallying his men. As the chaos escalated, he pulled aside his lieutenant. "I don't care how, get explosives, grenades, anything. Blow up those locomotives in the garage," he ordered, determined to deny the Germans any advantage.

Dragging the head of his first regiment aside, he added, "Hold the Germans back for just 15 minutes!"

The regiment leader nodded, though inwardly despairing at the grim task ahead. He rallied his troops, urging them to resist until they could destroy the strategic assets.

As the situation deteriorated, Garokov watched helplessly as his forces crumbled. The German encirclement tightened, and soon, hundreds of his soldiers were surrendering to a small group of German paratroopers, their quirky submachine guns pointed. The sight of abandoned Polish cannons, unused against the invaders, was a stark testament to the desperation and disarray among his men.

In this dire moment, Garokov grasped the scale of the German force – a few tanks and perhaps a dozen soldiers had effectively routed his regiment. The realization was as clear as it was painful.