Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II by Douglas W. Jacobson

Lowicz then north to Brochow. But there was no time for the easy route. With red and white banners fl ying, the brigade galloped in a straight line over fl at, open fi elds and farms. They charged through tiny hamlets, sending villagers scurrying to get out of the way.
    Darkness was falling as the brigade approached Brochow from the west side of the river. The Twenty-ninth Uhlans were the fi rst to arrive, and Jan led the regiment thundering across the bridge. The town was set back half a kilometer from the river with fl at, open terrain in between. In the gathering gloom, he could just barely see the outline of houses and buildings.
    He didn’t spot the tanks until they opened fi re.
    Night of Flames
    71
    Jan jerked his horse’s reins and led the galloping regiment in a wide arc to the north hoping to outfl ank the tanks.
    A second panzer unit emerged from the town, cutting them off.
    From two directions the tanks closed in, driving the Uhlans toward the river.
    In another few minutes they’d be trapped. Cursing their bad luck, Jan shouted at the bugler, “Sound the retreat!” and turned his horse toward the bridge.
    The Uhlans charged back across the bridge, dismounted and raced along the riverbank lugging machine guns and handheld anti-tank guns. As the brigade’s other regiments arrived they dismounted, spreading out to back up the Uhlans.
    When the fi rst panzer unit reached the middle of the bridge, Jan gave the order to commence fi ring, and the two lead tanks erupted in fl ames. Their hatches fl ew open and frantic German crewmen scrambled to escape the fi ery deathtraps, but a second line of tanks lumbered up from behind, shoving the burning wrecks over the side of the bridge.
    The next hour was chaos.
    The German tanks that managed to cross the bridge bulldozed through the ranks of Polish troopers, turrets swiveling, machine guns rattling, crushing the Uhlans and their anti-tank guns. German infantry units followed the tanks over the bridge, and the battle quickly degenerated into a hand-to-hand bloodbath.
    Shouting over the clamor, his eyes watering from the smoke, his head pounding from the deafening noise, Jan desperately tried to bring some order to the regiment’s battle lines, but it was hopeless. The only thing possible was to pick out a target and kill it before it killed you.
    The tide of battle turned steadily against the Uhlans as a continuing stream of German tanks, armored cars and infantry units rumbled across the bridge.
    A bugle sounded the inevitable retreat and Jan, aching with fatigue, hobbled along the riverbank searching for his squadron commanders. He found Peracki, then Stefan. “Where’s Bartkowicz?” Jan shouted.
    Stefan looked around and shouted back. “I don’t know. I think they went in closer to the bridge.”
    “Get your men out of here. I’ll be right behind you.” Jan jogged toward the bridge then stopped when he realized Stefan was right behind him. “I told you to get your men out of here.”
    “Brody has them, they’re heading out. Let’s go.”
    72
    Douglas W. Jacobson
    Running toward the bridge, they stopped dead in their tracks at the top of a rise. Fifty meters ahead, in the middle of a fl at open area, dozens of bodies lay scattered among gaping craters and piles of smoking rubble. The silhouettes of three tanks moved off in the opposite direction. A group of Polish troopers stumbling up the slope emerged through the smoke. “Where’s Kapitan Bartkowicz?” Jan yelled as the fi rst trooper made it to the top of the rise.
    The dazed boy looked at him with a blank expression and shook his head.
    “Goddamn it, where’s Bartkowicz?”
    A second trooper pointed to the bodies in the open fi eld. “He’s dead, sir.
    Over there, the tanks . . . Oh, shit he’s . . . they’re all . . .” The exhausted trooper fell to his knees.
    Stefan grabbed the boy under the arms, helped him up and shouted at Jan,
    “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
    Jan stood