The train shuddered to a halt in the cold dawn. Christian stepped down onto the platform with Jansen at his side, the air thick with coal smoke and the metallic tang of war. Around them, Wehrmacht soldiers shouted orders, boots hammering against the wooden planks, trucks growling as they hauled ammunition to the front. Westerplatte.
The name already carried weight, whispered with both pride and fury among the ranks. It was here, on the first of September, that Polish defenders had held out for a week against overwhelming German firepower. A "delay," the officers sneered, but every man Christian had spoken to know the truth; it had been a humiliation. One that could not be repeated.
Now, weeks later, pockets of resistance still lingered, hiding in the ruined forests and bunkers that ringed the coastline. It was Christian's task, Müller had said, to root them out. "You will not fail," Müller had added, eyes narrowing like blades. "The Reich cannot afford another embarrassment."
The forest around Westerplatte was scarred by bombardment. Trees were split and blackened, the ground pocked with craters filled with stagnant water. Concrete bunkers jutted from the earth like broken teeth. Christian moved cautiously, rifle ready, Jansen a step behind him. The silence of the woods was deceptive, every shadow seemed alive, every gust of wind carrying whispers.
"These Poles," Jansen muttered, "they're like ghosts. Hit-and-run, vanish before you can fire back." "That makes them dangerous," Christian replied. And secretly, he respected them. The defenders of Westerplatte had fought with nothing but rifles and willpower against battleships and bombers. That kind of defiance gnawed at Christian's thoughts when he lay awake at night. It reminded him of something human, something unbroken.
They found the first resistance fighters near dusk. A patrol of three Germans had gone missing. Christian tracked the trail through the rubble until he found them. They were slumped against a bunker wall, throats slit and their weapons stolen. The Shadows moved swiftly, spreading out, hunting the killers through the ruins. Christian caught the glint of steel in the trees and raised his rifle just as a Polish partisan lunged from cover.
The man's bayonet flashed. Christian sidestepped, slammed the rifle butt into his skull, and fired point-blank. The gunshot echoed, drawing more figures from the ruins, four, maybe five. Shouts in Polish. Gunfire cracked through the twilight. Christian dove behind a shattered wall, returning fire with cold precision. Jansen flanked left, dropping two before they even realized they were exposed. The others fled into the trees, vanishing as quickly as they had struck.
The silence returned, heavy, suffocating. Jansen crouched beside the body of the man Christian had killed. He shook his head. "Farmers. Most of them are farmers. Not soldiers." Christian didn't answer. He only reloaded, jaw tight.
That night, Müller summoned Christian to the command post, a commandeered farmhouse lit by lanterns. The air smelled of tobacco and damp earth. Maps sprawled across the table, red ink marking known Polish positions. "You are too slow," Müller said without preamble. His tone was sharp, a lash more than a word. "Each day these vermin resist is a day the Reich looks weak. You will end this."
Christian nodded. "How?" "By burning them out." Müller leaned close, his eyes gleaming. "You will show them there is no sanctuary left. Their forests, their bunkers, their very homes. They will choke on smoke until they surrender or die." The order was clear: scorched earth. No distinction between soldier and civilian. Christian left the farmhouse with the words echoing in his skull. Burn them out.
At dawn, the Shadows struck. They poured fuel into the bunkers where partisans were suspected to hide, torches flaring like serpents of flame. Smoke coiled through the trees, thick and acrid. The Poles fought desperately, bursting from the infernos with rifles blazing, coughing, eyes streaming. Christian shot them down one by one, his men cutting off every escape.
But the fire did not discriminate. Christian saw a woman stumble from the flames, clutching a child in her arms. Her hair was singed, her dress in tatters. She screamed something in Polish, words Christian couldn't understand but felt in his marrow. He hesitated. Just a moment.
Jansen fired instead, the woman collapsing into the dirt, the child still clutched to her chest. Christian looked at Jansen, but his friend only shook his head. "Orders," he said. The smoke grew thicker, swallowing the screams, until only silence remained.
By midday, word spread that the last organized cell of resistance fighters had been cornered in an underground bunker near the coast. Christian volunteered to lead the strike. They approached carefully, tossing grenades through the entry shaft before storming inside. The blast shook the earth, filling the tunnel with dust.
Christian dropped into the bunker first, rifle raised. He expected corpses. Instead, he found shadows.
The Poles had set a trap. The walls were lined with hidden explosives, the detonator wired to the last defender's hand. An old man, gaunt but unbroken, stared at Christian with burning eyes. "For Poland," he whispered, pressing the switch.
Christian dove backward, screaming for his men.
The explosion ripped through the ground, collapsing the bunker, sending fire and dirt into the sky. Half of Christian's unit was buried alive. When the dust cleared, Christian crawled from the wreckage, ears ringing, lungs burning. Jansen pulled him to his feet, coughing blood. The others were gone. Christian stood staring at the smoking crater. His men were dead, the Poles too, but the victory tasted of ash.
That night, Christian sat alone by the shore, waves lapping against the rocks. The fire of Westerplatte still smoldered behind him, a scar of smoke against the horizon.
He thought of the old man in the bunker, the woman with the child, the farmers with rifles. They had died with more conviction than most of the men Christian fought beside.
Jansen joined him, dropping into the sand with a groan. His arm was bandaged, his face smeared with soot. "We won," he said, though his voice carried no triumph. "Did we?" Christian asked softly. Jansen looked at him, frowning. "What do you mean?" Christian didn't answer. The sea whispered its own reply and it was endless, cold and indifferent.
When they returned to Müller the next day, he praised Christian for his ruthlessness. "The Reich needs men like you," he said, clasping his shoulder. But Christian felt hollow. He had burned, shot, and buried them. And yet, the Poles had not been defeated. They had simply chosen to die on their own terms. The darkness within him deepened, but now, for the first time, it carried a seed of doubt.