Gniezno had been taken, but the price had been enormous, especially for the civilian population of the city.
Between shattered facades and smoldering ruins, shouts echoed through the streets. Loud, triumphant cries that felt utterly out of place amid the devastation.
On the vast marketplace, dozens of German tanks stood parked in tight formation. Wehrmacht soldiers occupied every position imaginable, standing atop the steel hulls, beside them, before them. The entire square was filled with men, their unified chants overpowering even the relentless rain pouring down from above.
"JAEGER! JAEGER! JAEGER!"
Their voices thundered through the square, all eyes fixed on a single man.
Paul stood at the center. His uniform was damaged, stained by battle, a black cloak resting on his shoulders, fluttering softly in the wind.
Behind him, the high-ranking officers were lined up in a neat row, hands clasped behind their backs, faces rigid.
The chants gradually faded, giving way to a heavy silence. Only the sound of Paul's boots striking the broken stone beneath him could be heard as he stepped forward.
"Men," he said loudly, his voice cutting through the stillness and commanding every ounce of attention.
"Today, we have achieved something historic. Something that will be written into the books."
He turned briefly, casting a measured glance over the officers behind him before facing the crowd once more.
"For decades, land warfare has depended on aerial support. This was the golden rule, something every commander was taught. Something Berlin has refused us."
A pause. Paul allowed himself a faint smile, one that vanished a moment later.
Angry roars rose from the ranks, the soldiers well aware of the injustice.
"Today, we have won without it. Today, we have proven our superiority. The Wehrmacht's superiority. Your superiority."
His voice rose with every word.
"Let us continue. Show the world this superiority. Let them freeze in fear. Let them taste their own medicine. Today was only an appetizer for what is yet to come."
Paul stopped, turning fully toward the assembled masses.
"So I ask you once more," he said, his gaze unwavering."Are you with me?"
A single drop of rain slid down Paul's cheek.
Then the roar returned. The soldiers shouted, raised their fists, and chanted once more.
"JAEGER! JAEGER!"
Paul's eyes drifted into the distance.
"They must be shaking right now," he said quietly, his voice swallowed by the countless other sounds around him.
It was unclear whom he meant in that moment. Berlin. Warsaw. Or someone far smaller, buried beneath the ruins of the city around him...
Warsaw, Polish Army Headquarters
An unnatural stillness hung over the densely packed room, filled with men in ornate, exaggerated uniforms. A dim lamp flickered weakly, casting pale light across tense faces.
Marshal Edward Rydz-Śmigł stroked his beard, his gaze fixed downward, unfocused.
Suddenly, the door burst open. A soldier rushed inside.
For a brief moment, expectation flashed across the faces of the generals. In the next, it twisted into concealed fear. Every man in the room noticed the soldier's expression as he handed a letter to Marshal Edward Rydz-Śmigł.
All except the marshal already understood their situation.
Rydz-Śmigł snapped out of his trance and took the paper. He read it in silence, then slowly lowered his head once more, his eyes drifting into nothingness.
The generals exchanged confused glances.
"Marshal?" one of them asked hesitantly.
No answer.
"Marshal?" another tried again, louder this time.
When he still did not respond, a third general stepped closer, reaching out a hand.
Suddenly, the marshal brushed it aside and stood up, his movements slow, heavy. His mouth opened as if the words themselves weighed him down.
"Full retreat. We must save as many as we can," he muttered.
He turned and left the room, abandoning the remaining men in stunned silence.
"Damn it, let me see that," one of the generals, a heavyset man, barked as he grabbed the paper left behind.
"This… hah," he muttered while reading, before his voice rose sharply.
"The German Panzer division we have identified, commanded by Oberst Heinrich Jaeger, has taken the city of Gniezno. The railway junction is fully under German control. The corridor they pierced is being flooded with German armor, attempting to link up with them."
His voice dropped as he continued.
"Further south, the Germans have broken through our hastily erected lines and the few remaining armored units with alarming speed. They may soon link up with the forces advancing on Gniezno."
The room fell silent.
"This could encircle the entire Greater Poznań Army," he finished quietly. "Two hundred thousand soldiers."
"Is Poland truly doomed?" one of the generals whispered, yet his voice carried clearly through the room.
"Even if we order a full retreat, we cannot use the railways," the fat general analyzed grimly. "They are already in German hands. The men would have to march."
"There is only one way, gentlemen. A sacrifice, to buy us enough time…"A younger general stepped forward, his fist striking the table.
The officers' eyes drifted to the small metal horse on the desk. For a brief moment, their gazes met above it, a dangerous understanding forming between them.
Hours earlier, in a forest somewhere near Bydgoszcz.
The sound of countless hooves striking the ground echoed through the trees.
Mikhailiv looked around, the hand gripping his reins trembling slightly. His eyes betrayed his unease as he took in the scene before him.
Hundreds of corpses lay scattered across the forest floor, the remnants of a devastating battle.
"A battle we clearly lost," Mikhailiv muttered, his gaze sweeping over the bodies, their shattered uniforms, their lifeless faces.
"Lieutenant, it's time to move!" another officer shouted from a distance, already riding ahead with the rest of the cavalry division.
Mikhailiv and his horse remained behind, standing within a lonely patch of forest. Thin streaks of sunlight pierced the dense canopy above, falling upon the dead.
"I…" Mikhailiv whispered, barely audible, his eyes fixed on the body lying directly beside him. Something about it felt familiar, yet he could not name what it was.
Judging by the uniform, it was an ordinary soldier. A pawn in this game, played and sacrificed all the same.
"Wait!" Mikhailiv shouted, swinging himself down from his horse, fear flashing in his eyes.
Slowly, he knelt beside the corpse, gripping it by the collar and turning it over. When the body fell onto its back, Mikhailiv stepped away at once, covering his nose.
His gaze locked onto the face, already rotten, stripped of all identity. Only the black hair still clung to the skull, defiant even in death.
"Ivan…"he paused.
"May this not be you," he whispered. "May you survive this game."He mounted his horse again and gently patted its neck.
"Come on," he said, and the horse began to move toward the others, carefully weaving its way around the corpses scattered across the forest floor.
Behind him lay darkness. Ahead stretched the end of the forest, bathed in warm sunlight. Yet it did not feel warm at all.
Mikhailiv soon rejoined the rest of his division, their horses now sprinting as new orders came down from high command, or so he had been told.
His head remained turned forward, blond hair whipping wildly in the wind. He rode straight toward the sunset filling the sky.
Far from Mikhailiv, another Panzer division was moving as well, the same sunset looming behind countless tanks thundering across the Polish fields.
Inside one of them sat a familiar figure, his features sharp and unmistakable.
Erwin Rommel was on his way to close the deadly trap woven by Paul, Manstein, and himself.
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