39. The Siege of Warsaw
Warsaw, Poland
21 September 1939
"Beneath the ashes of Warsaw, the fires still rage." Every morning, at sunrise according to the almanac, Warsaw Radio broadcast the single sentence from a speech of Foreign Minister Beck's when the German forces first encircled the city two weeks into the campaign. Beck had been the seniormost government official available; Marshal Rysz-Smigly had been at the barricades on the city outskirts, and the rest of the Colonels had fled while they could to various points in the Polish hinterland.
The forces arrayed against Warsaw were considerable. Generalfeldmarschall von Bock had brought the northern wing of the army in past Thorn and cut the last possible hope of communication between Warsaw and the sea. Generalfeldmarschall (Preuss.) von Blomberg had brought the rather meager forces of East Prussia in across Lomza and Suwalki, closing the northern routes and setting up artillery positions on the far side of the Vistula. To the west, Generaloberst von Rundstedt and Prince Wilhelm had brought the central infantry force and the elite Guards against the city, with Wilhelm extending along the city's southern frontier. His armored forces, 1. Garde-Panzer and Leib-Panzer "Totenkopf," linked up with the massive armored broom which had swept around the city, leaving a handful of picket divisions from Guderian's corps - Guderian, Rommel, and Hoepner. The armored forces' sole role was to prevent a breakout. This was to be Bock's longed-for annihilation battle, with a total of thirty-five infantry divisions, three cavalry divisions, and five armored divisions encircling the city and the Luftwaffe's sole bomber Geschwader droning overhead.
In the trenches around Warsaw, the Poles started with fifteen divisions of reservists, hastily called up and concentrated at the city as the rest of the country collapsed. To this, Rysz-Smigly had added another twenty "divisions" in various states of dissolution. Their ranks were filled out with invalids, old men, and teenagers. Rysz-Smigly combed out his rear echelons, forcing every man, able-bodied or otherwise, into combat positions and replacing the supply, medical, and logistic services with everything ranging from schoolgirls to patriotic nuns. His last mobile reserve, three dozen dual-turret 7-TP tanks previously thought only fit for training, were held back in the city. The hoped-for armored brigade was no more, chased into the area around Grodno and annihilated in a series of skirmishes. Like machine-gunners in the Great War, tankers had a mysteriously low survival rate in Poland, as by this stage in the war, the Poles fought their machines to the death, rather than abandoning a mobility-killed vehicle and hitching a ride.
Despite the massive forces arrayed against the city, the Germans made little headway. Warsaw was the first taste the Germans had of fighting in a city against an enemy prepared for their approach, and Rysz-Smigly reminded them of the heroic defense of the city against the Reds not twenty years prior. Bock was forced to call up reserves that had been thought safe from further campaigning, and 7. Fliegerdivision dutifully trudged from Lodz, grumbling the entire way. They arrived in Rundstedt's camp on the evening of 20 September in a motley collection of stolen wagons, trucks, and any other transport that could speed their way, led as always by their pioneer battalion.
By now, the fortress of Modlin, the strongest point in Warsaw's defenses and the only portion of the city's fortifications which had been maintained and expanded from before the Partitions, had fallen to Bock. The Battle of Modlin had been one of the most brutal in the campaign thus far. Modlin was a strong, modern position at the fork of the Vistula, requiring a river crossing in the face of excellent, stout defenses. Bock had resorted to tera-gas bombardment to open the fortress, and when General Gotthard Heinrici, of 16. Infanteriedivision, asked what the fortress's fate would be, Bock had grimly replied, "
The rats tried to kill the Kaiser. Burn them out, and shoot them when they run." Heinrici, remarkably, first lodged a formal protest, then, when Bock overruled it, altered his prisoner rolls so that no one was officially captured at Modlin. When Bock heard of this, he was icily furious, calling Heinrici "that poison dwarf;" it was a nickname that stuck.
The breaking of Modlin opened the road into Warsaw's northern suburbs, and Rysz-Smigly rushed his troops north to cover the stretch between the Vistula and the Bug-Narew. This narrow area was easily protected, and what Heinrici gained for his grinding assault was a mile of Polish forest, rather than a deep penetration. Emphasis now shifted to the Guards along the west, where Prinz Wilhelm's division fought their way into the towns of Nadarzyn and Radziejowice before their offensive, too, stalled in the face of the desperate Polish defense.
This grinding along the western perimeter consumed the first week of fighting, up to the arrival of the reserve infantry divisions mobilizing in Germany proper and the parachutists fresh from their victory at Lodz. The parachutists finally got their first taste of real fighting on the offense. Their initial goal was Rybie, on the southwest side of Warsaw, with the goal of opening the road to Okecie Field, the city's primary airport. If Rybie could be taken, a salient would open in the rear of the Poles to the west of the city, and a wedge started, either forcing their withdrawal or their overrun. The assault on Rybie began shortly before five in the morning, approaching from the south. A preparatory barrage was launched - along the Modlin front, the east bank of the Vistula, and along the Guards' line. Rybie itself was spared as Student's men low-crawled forward through the fields south of the town.
Wilhelm Volkmann was leading his platoon, barely able to see them, let alone what was before him, his helmet rim dragging through the black soil. They came to their initial phase line, where the platoon took stock and the squad leaders hurried to assure him that their squads were up and ready to move. The machine guns were dragged into place and their fields of fire marked off, and he awaited the kickoff signal, forcing his breath to stay under control.
He did not have to wait very long. Five minutes after he checked the last-laid gun, a shrill whistle split the night and the machine guns, knowing their cue, lit the predawn night with tracers. The paratroopers lurched forward at a run, bent double to present a smaller target, and flopped themselves down en masse at the hedge that marked the edge of town. The Poles had posted pickets, and Wilhelm saw rifle flashes along the line of houses perhaps ten meters inside the hedge. He fumbled for his entrenching tool, drawing it to begin cuttinga small hole at the base of the hedge. The rest of the platoon mirrored his actions, creating breaches just big enough for one man at a time to wriggle through. Hissing at Bechtel, he pointed over the hedge. "When I throw, you start crawling, got it?" Bechtel, nostrils flared, nodded once.
Wilhelm pulled an egg grenade from his harness, yanking the pin out, and stood for just long enough to yell "GRENADE!" and hurl it over the hedge. Bechtel began scrambling under as the ground shook under them, stone fragments from the farmhouse pelting the hedge. Whether they had been harmed, the Poles inside had certainly been knocked off their feet; Bechtel made it through and dashed madly for the wall, crouching under the window. Next through the breach was Fitzgerald, who swore loudly and profusely as his significantly larger frame got caught on the hedge. Wilhelm saw the Poles returning to the window, and jabbed the muzzle of his MP38 through the hedge, spraying high to avoid Bechtel. Bechtel, for his part, performed a similar maneuver with his submachine gun, jabbing its muzzle through the window frame and firing wildly. Neither of them expected positive results; it was all an effort to buy Fitzgerald time.
The big Irishman made it through, high-crawling comically across the ten-meter gap to the door, and Wilhelm grabbed the next man, roughly shoving him down to the gap. As soon as he was through, the next man moved, Wilhelm shoving his troops through as quick as he could. The moment that Fitzgerald reached the building, Bechtel pulled a grenade, counting to three, then to five to burn most of the fuse off, and tossed it through the window, ducking as it shook the building to the foundations. Plaster dust showered down around them and smoke billowed out, and as soon as the blast ended, Bechtel lurched upwards, diving through the blown-out window. The sound of firing followed, then a hoarse, shouted "Clear!" as Fitzgerald followed. By now, Wilhelm himself was in the garden, using the garden wall as a makeshift firing step to face out into the street. The Poles in the house opposite scrambled back out the garden gate, and he snapped off shots at them as they pulled back. He saw one man drop, a spreading pool of blood under his chest, and another slump against the wall, and heard the tinkle of breaking glass as his men punched out windows along the side facing the street. The machine guns came through last, lumbering up into the carriage house to set up the widest field of fire possible.
After the first house, there was no element of surprise whatsoever. The Poles were prepared to fall back, house by house, and as the tankers found outside Lwow, there was only so much that superior skill could do. It came to a knife fight at some points, and before they had cleared the first block, Wilhelm's platoon was utterly out of grenades. A lull in the fighting followed, and Wilhelm leaned back against the wall of what had once been some prosperous Pole merchant's second-story bedroom. Each squad had lost a least one man, some dead, some wounded, and fourth was down to three effectives. It had, in short, been a brutal fight to make it the length of this block of houses.
Bechtel and his squad held most of the house, and Bechtel himself came upstairs. "I sent a runner back, sir. Should be a K-wagen coming up with grenades before too long." Rundstedt's army and the Guards had the majority of the Army's open-topped Zündapp scout cars, which had quickly acquired the name "bucket-seat cars" for their removable and thoroughly uncomfortable seats. These cars were doing yeoman duty in Warsaw, acting as ambulances, ammunition carriers, and in extreme situations, gun trucks.
The radio operator, Eiche, waddled up the stairs shortly thereafter, wireless awkwardly strapped to his back. "Sir," he began apologetically, "the General himself on the horn, wants to know why the attack's bogged down." Wilhelm sat up, shaking his head in sudden weariness, and took the handset from Eiche. "This is Leutnant Volkmann, go ahead, over."
"Volkmann. You know who I am." It was no question, and there was no radio-protocol "over" at the end. The impatience and anger came clearly through the radio. "Why the hell are you sitting still?"
"Sir, we don't have any doorknockers. The Poles know we're here, we're out of grenades, and I'm not throwing my platoon into a meatgrinder just to get another house." He had spent the morning fighting, and at the moment was far less guarded in how he approached the General, still less that it was on an open radio network. He suspected the other lead elements had received the same calls, but he felt this was just harassment. He heard silence on the other end of the line for a moment, then Student's voice again. "You're at the Anton line, right?"
"Yes, sir." The silence again. "Stand by. I'll see if we can't shake some of the Army's 105s loose for you. Keep your ears open and your heads down, give me five minutes. Student out."
Wilhelm nodded, futile though it was over the radio. He sighed, turning back to Bechtel. "Get the other squad leaders up here. We've got a bad day ahead of us." Minutes later, four non-commissioned officers squatted in front of the wrecked bedframe that had become Wilhelm's command post. "Apparently the General's trying to get Army fire for us. I want your people ready to move across the street soon as the barrage starts, even if it means running into the guns. First and second, you're the assault element. Third, you're fire support, you've got all the 'thirty-fours. Fourth, you're reserve in case we need you to rescue our asses. Questions?" Three resigned head-shakes followed, and one question - Bechtel. "Sir, two questions - first, where are you in all this, and second, where's Müller?" Wilhelm quirked his eyebrow. "I'm with the assault element, and so's the Sani. Radio stays on this side 'til I call for it." He stood, stretching. "Make sure full mags are loaded."
Downstairs, on the side facing across the street to the next block, Wilhelm and the two assault squads waited nervously for the signal. Upstairs, the platoon's four machine guns poked out the knocked-out windows, and the worst phase of the battle began: the minutes of waiting before the barrage. Each man was trapped in his head with his own thoughts, none of them particularly pleasant, about what would be coming on the other side of the street. Fitzgerald quietly sang to himself. Even Wilhelm had to admit that he wasn't bad; if the Division ever formed a choir, he'd be a natural for it. It was a pity they'd cancelled the divisional boxing league, Fitzgerald had looked pretty good there too. The distracting thoughts were interrupted by a deep, train-like rumble, followed by the shattering explosion of the first artillery rounds in the middle of the street. Wilhelm grabbed the radio handset and yelled into it. "ADD TEN! ADD TEN!" he bellowed, and, obediently, the next rounds shifted into the facade of the building across the street.
As commanded, the two assault squads reared up and charged, moving through the chaos that the street had become, trying not to twist their ankles in the sudden craters or trip over the debris. Wilhelm was up and after them a moment later, debris from the shattered facade across from him. He glanced up and saw that the buildings had been peeled to expose both stories as if they were a giant's sardine can. As a result, the assault fell upon kitchen, downstairs bedroom, and coat-closet equally, and the stunned Poles were thrown into utter disarray. The upstairs defenders were slightly better-prepared, with an obvious course of action, but even so, the first three ran down into Wilhelm's men. After that, it became a standoff on the stairs, with the men upstairs armed with bolt-action rifles and no way to resupply themselves, but Wilhelm knowing quite well that throwing a grenade upstairs was suicide even if he had any, and that no one would ever make those stairs in a rush. For the moment, he had to content himself with yelling back across the street, "Any movement upstairs, it's them, nail 'em." It was a successful assault, and the worst injuries they had sustained were sprains.
He was not the only one to take advantage of the open side of the house. He saw movement high on his right and brought the muzzle up, firing without really aiming. He saw two things happen simultaneously. First, a Polish soldier cried out and toppled forward, falling head-first into the street with a cracking sound that made Wilhelm's gunfire redundant. Second, a metal egg rolled into the first story. He knew what this meant, and dove for cover as he shrieked, "GRENADE!"
His world shook, and he tried to stand. To his surprise, he was unable to move from behind the low table he had mistaken for cover. He reached down, his hand responding sluggishly, as if moving by remote control, and ran his hand along his left leg. It came away red, and he felt the fabric of his trousers open freely from calf to thigh. His fingertips felt slightly numb, and incredulously, he picked a four-centimeter steel fragment from his thigh, holding it up before his face with a puzzled expression. The world seemed to pulse and throb, and he leaned back against the wall in time to hear Bechtel's scream, raw-edged and frankly terrified, of "SANI!"
The last thing Wilhelm remembered was the feeling of strong, surprisingly gentle arms under his shoulders picking him up, and a painful jolting sensation as he was thrown across Fitzgerald's massive back.
---
Frau Volkmann,
I regret to inform you that your husband was injured during operations in Poland. He fell leading his platoon in close combat against determined opposition, in the finest traditions of the German soldier. His injuries were severe and entailed life-threatening blood loss, but he is expected to make a full recovery. He is currently being treated for his injuries at the Invalidenhof in Berlin; if you choose to visit him, I have attached the information you will require. Please do not hesitate to forward any requests you have through the Divisional rear detachment at Stendal.
Yours,
K. STUDENT
GENERALLEUTNANT
ATTENTION TO ORDERS.
For gallantry in the face of the enemy leading to the salvation of a German soldier, it pleases Us to award the Members' Cross of the House Order of Hohenzollern, with Swords, to Gefreiter Joachim Fitzgerald. Furthermore, it pleases Us to award the Iron Cross, First and Second Classes, to the aforementioned Gefreiter Fitzgerald. Furthermore, it pleases Us to raise the aforementioned Gefreiter to the rank of Obergefreiter. His actions, in keeping with the highest traditions of service to the Kaiser and King, serves as an example to all in Our Service.
In the name of His Imperial and Royal Highness,
WILHELM
Prinz von Preussen
ATTENTION TO ORDERS.
For his heroic actions in effecting a breach into the town of Rybie, Leutnant Wilhelm Volkmann, platoon leader, 2. Kompanie, 1. Fallschirm-Pionier-Abteilung, 7. Fliegerdivision, is granted the Order of the Red Eagle, Fourth Class, with Swords in conjunction with the Wound Badge in Black. While tasked with breaching the town's defenses in the face of superior numbers, Leutnant Volkmann succeeded in clearing the defenders from two city blocks in hand-to-hand combat. Leutnant Volkmann himself led his platoon into an assault across the street, continuing to lead despite injuries sustained in the fighting, and sought medical attention only after his objectives were completed. Leutnant Volkmann's behavior reflects the highest credit upon his unit, his service, and himself.
For His Imperial and Royal Highness,
WILHELM
Prinz von Preussen
---
Polish President Stefan Starzynski said:
Warsaw is burning. Warsaw is fighting its enemy in this last mortal battle. All the promises let us down, the help did not arrive. Lack of food and lack of potable water paralises and weakens. Yet we fight: with the enemy, with the fire and with the epidemics. Everyone is fighting. Whole city is tied in this mortal struggle. You send us letters of compliments and best wishes from London and Paris. We don't want wishes any more, nor we await your help. It's too late for help. Before it arrives there will be only rubble here, a corpses-covered, levelled terrain. What we await is revenge. We expect that you will start fighting one day, just like Warsaw is.
---
The 7. Fliegerdivision sustained heavy but not unbearable casualties creating the breach in Warsaw's southern defenses, and when Bock looked at the situation as it appeared on the map, he was satisfied. Warsaw was opening like a clamshell, and Rundstedt's army moved through the exhausted paratroopers to push into Warsaw proper. It took another eight days, but a Polish officer finally advanced from Warsaw Castle under a white flag to deliver Marshal Rysz-Smigly's surrender. The official instrument of surrender was signed on 30 September 1939, placing all of Poland under German control. The official party on the German side consisted of Bock himself, Rundstedt in his colonel's uniform, Prinz Wilhelm as the Kaiser's representative and commander of the Guards, and two newly-minted lieutenant-generals, Generalleutnant von Manstein as commander of the Garde-Panzerkorps and Generalleutnant Student, a blue enamel cross glittering at his throat and a plaster bandage on his head where a Polish bullet had grazed his ear.
