Not With a Bang, But With a Whimper...
Pavel could not account for their good fortune.
Civilian Poles normally had no access to modern weapons. Normally, they had only the use of their obsolete flintlocks – their personal weapons. Had they ever mounted any resistance – and they had in years past – they would have been easily cut down by loyal elements of the Habsburg Army – and they had in years past.
Wisely, the Austrians had always sent soldiers of ethnic minorities to regions far from their homes. Pavel’s son, Krysz, for instance, was in Slovenia, where he was as estranged from the native population as from his German commanders. Most of the Polish soldiers in Austrian service were elsewhere. Only the civilian reserves remained.
Polish patriots had already begun to speak and agitate for an independent Poland when the order for mobilization came. He and Patryck had been mobilized into the reserves for the defense of the Empire a week past.
And three days past, it had become clear that the Empire was in turmoil and confusion. People were protesting for democracy. Soldiers were protesting for democracy! And the Austrian Army was paralyzed by indecision and fear.
The change had come over the course of five hours on Tuesday afternoon. Feldwebel Pavel Skiedweza of the Austrian Imperial Army Reserve had become Major Pavel Skiedweza of the Polish Revolutionary Army. It had become clear that the time was now.
And now, Skiedweza led 300 Polish reservists in an advance to the Austrian armory at Bielitz (Bielsko), immediately east of Prussian Teschen (Cieszyn). They had come last week to receive their weapons. Now they returned to use them.
Three of the Austro-German soldiers who had guarded the armory were fleeing, gradually, down the cobblestoned street. They would turn, fire at the mass of pedestrian rebels, then run thirty meters and take another stand. Inaccurate gunfire followed after them.
Skiedweza, trusting only in God to protect him, trotted his horse forward slowly. His eyes were fixed on the gray-clad riflemen down the street.
A shot from the armory drew his attention. A Polish private fell with only a grunt, a small red stain marring the breast of his wool coat. Reining in, Pavel directed fire at the window from which the shot had come. A squad of Poles hurried up the steps into the stone building which housed enough weapons to arm hundreds more patriots.
“Patryck!” he called to his brother, who hurried up to his horse’s side. “Go around the other side of the building,” Pavel pointed, “and offer the defenders their lives if they will just run out the back.”
Patryck grinned, knowingly. “Of course.”
Patryck!” Pavel glared. “Make sure none of your men fires at them.” When Patryck seemed to balk, Pavel emphasized. “They are common men, just like us. But they have no cause to fight for. Let them go, and they will.”
Reluctantly, Patryck acknowledged and led a dozen soldiers through the alley.
Soon, it was clear that the arsenal would fall into their hands without stiff resistance. The Imperial Army hadn’t any fight left in it. Poland was free! The Austrian-occupied part of it, anyway.
Pavel’s thoughts immediately went to his son, Krysz. Was he still in Slovenia? Was his road as easy, and would he return to fight beside his father? Or would he have to run for his life? Would he ever see blessed Krysz again?
Sporadic gunfire still echoed here and there – mostly in the distance. Through the fog caused by his breath, he could see only the two remaining Austrians rounding a corner down the street and leaving the scene. His Poles were milling around, waiting for the signal from those already inside that it was clear to enter the armory.
Having seen battle before – desperate, scrabbling struggles for life – Pavel knew this was not the fight they expected. That task remained for them, in the future.
Pavel crossed himself and said a prayer for Krysz. And for Poland.