Location: 10 kilometers East of the Polish Border
Date: 1 September 1939
Time: 0430 Hours
---
Just months ago, Erich had fought through the crumbling streets of Prague, where every corner had hidden a rifle barrel and every shadow had whispered death. The air there had been thick with smoke and terror, the fighting desperate, improvised — survival won in inches of blood-soaked cobblestone.
Now, the war had shifted.
Here, in the chill of the Polish countryside, it was different. Cleaner. Colder. The plan was not to seize street corners or outlast hidden snipers. It was to move — fast, ruthless, unstoppable. Blitzkrieg.
Erich adjusted his helmet, the strap damp against his skin. Around him, the long column of German infantry trudged through the misty predawn, a line of gray ghosts stretching back into the gloom. Trucks and armored cars rumbled somewhere in the rear, their engines muted under the low, heavy sky. Tanks — real tanks this time, not the tin cans of Prague — rolled forward on either flank, their treads chewing the muddy earth with mechanical hunger.
No one spoke unless they had to. Orders were passed in low, clipped whispers. Gestures carried more meaning than words: a sharp nod, a jab of a finger, a clenched fist.
Ten kilometers from the Polish border, and already the weight of it pressed down on them. Erich could feel it in his chest — that awful pause before something broke loose. A tension that no amount of training or preparation could dissolve.
He shifted the rifle across his shoulder, feeling the worn leather of the sling bite into his uniform jacket. His boots squelched against the rutted dirt road. Every step felt heavy, deliberate.
Helmut trudged beside him, quiet as ever, his eyes scanning the mist ahead. Jonas marched a little farther back, his movements stiff but determined, the lingering effects of the bullet wound from Prague still not fully healed. Meissner, Hahn, Weber, the others — twelve men in total, their squad knitted together more tightly by shared fear than by orders from above.
Somewhere out there — beyond the trees, beyond the low ridges that rose like sleeping beasts from the fields — the enemy waited.
Erich didn't need an officer to tell him that this would be different.
The maps showed villages, river crossings, and checkpoints. But the Poles wouldn't wait politely in neat rows for the Wehrmacht to roll over them. They would fight, and when they did, it would be fast, brutal, and without warning.
The mist began to thin as the first pale light of dawn crept into the world, bleeding gray into the black. Shapes ahead resolved into the hulking forms of Panzer IIIs and IVs, tanks positioned in loose wedges along the flanks, their turrets occasionally swiveling as commanders scanned the horizon through binoculars.
A messenger passed by at a quick trot, boots thudding against the muddy track. He muttered a few hurried words to a platoon leader up ahead, then veered off toward another unit.
Erich caught only fragments of the exchange —
"…bridge intact…"
"…enemy scouts spotted…"
"…move faster…"
The pace of the column subtly quickened. Boots slapped harder against the mud, field gear rattled louder. The war, silent for these few cold hours, was beginning to stir awake.
Helmut leaned in slightly, voice low. "Won't be long now."
Erich said nothing. He only tightened his grip on his rifle and kept moving.
The column trudged onward, the low hum of truck engines and the rumble of tanks vibrating through the earth. The sun hung high above, but the air was thick with anticipation. The quiet murmur of soldiers walking in formation blended with the clanking of rifles against backpacks and the rhythmic crunch of boots on the dirt path. Men joked softly among themselves, trying to ease the weight of what was to come. Others walked in stoic silence, their eyes ahead, their thoughts undoubtedly elsewhere.
Erich marched alongside his squad, his boots clicking steadily in time with the others. His mind was sharp, a far cry from the uncertain soldier he had once been. He kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, but his awareness reached out to the sounds around him—the deep mechanical growls of the tanks, the faint hiss of exhaust fumes from the trucks laden with supplies, and the occasional clink of metal on metal.
The weight of the moment hung in the air. War had been declared, and now it was finally upon them.
The infantry column stretched for miles, a mix of soldiers from different backgrounds and walks of life. Some men carried the weight of fervent belief in the cause. Others, like Erich, carried only a desire to survive. The men shouted "Sieg Heil!" when officers passed, the words echoing in the heavy air. A mixture of pride, fear, and blind obedience lingered in the shouts, and the officers saluted back sharply.
The Panzer I tanks rumbled behind the infantry, small and light, their twin machine guns a far cry from the larger, more powerful Panzers that would follow. Panzer II tanks were next, their 37mm guns capable of dealing with light resistance. Erich's eyes flicked to the tanks now and then, noting their steady progression through the forest, their dark iron bodies cutting through the greenery with ease.
The Panzer III followed, their more serious armor and 50mm guns marking the tanks that would hold the line. The sound of their engines vibrated through Erich's chest, a deep, threatening growl that promised destruction. The Panzer IV, still relatively rare, followed closely behind, its presence giving the troops a momentary boost in morale—an indication of what was to come. The force of this Blitzkrieg was unstoppable.
Motorcycles zoomed past, their riders messengers or scouts, weaving between trucks and tanks as the convoy moved ever closer to the Polish border. Opel Blitz trucks carried men and supplies, the smell of oil and gasoline mixing with the sharp scent of sweat and dust that filled the air. Sd.Kfz. 251 half-tracks clattered along the path, carrying mechanized troops who would later spearhead assaults once the tanks broke through.
Erich noted the camaraderie—or lack thereof—among the men. Some were nervous, others excited. He exchanged glances with Helmut, the tall, hard-nosed infantryman who'd been with him through thick and thin. Helmut's mouth twitched as he walked, a half-smile that was more nerves than anything else. Jonas, still healing from his shoulder wound, walked with a slight limp, but there was something in his posture—an edge, perhaps—that signaled he was ready for what was to come. Even with their fear, each man had been tempered by the harsh realities of combat.
The air grew heavier as the column neared the Polish border, the landscape shifting from dense forest to open terrain. The border was visible now, distant hills and patches of farmland beyond it, the Polish defenses hidden behind trees and shallow trenches. Erich knew what was coming. The Blitzkrieg was swift, and the Poles would be caught off guard. That much was certain.
He glanced at his squad. They were prepared—or as prepared as they could be. But even with the anticipation of combat stirring within him, Erich's thoughts wandered. It would be their first real test.
And then, the first roar of Ju 87 Stuka dive bombers cracked through the air, followed by a second, louder, more jarring. The sky overhead darkened as the planes descended, and the unmistakable sound of their Jericho Trumpets shrieked down through the heavens, signaling the beginning of destruction.
The planes screamed as they dove toward the unseen Polish positions, bombs falling from their bellies in a deadly cascade. Erich ducked instinctively as the planes passed overhead, the shockwave of their passes sending tremors through the ground. His ears rang, and for a moment, he could only hear the thudding of his heart.
The first salvo had been launched. The air was thick with the smell of burning fuel and the unmistakable stench of war. The Blitzkrieg was no longer a concept—it was happening now.
---
Chapter 4: Part 3 – The First Wave of Destruction
0900 Hours, 1 September 1939
1 km from the Polish Border
Location: Outskirts of the Polish Defensive Line
The Stukas continued their dive-bombing runs, each pass bringing down more devastation. The first targets had been the Polish airfields, but now, their bombs were tearing apart key infrastructure—communication centers, bridges, and supply depots. With each explosion, the Polish defense felt more disjointed, their ability to coordinate and retaliate crippled.
From where Erich stood, he could feel the ground tremble with each bomb dropped. The Polish forces had no time to organize. Their lines were fractured, their men scattered. The Blitzkrieg had broken their spirit before the infantry even crossed into Poland.
Erich's squad advanced, clearing the path for the tanks to follow. They moved forward, their rifles at the ready, eyes scanning the distant trees for any sign of enemy movement. The silence that followed the air raids felt unnatural, as if the world itself had paused.
Behind them, the Panzer divisions began to form up, ready to charge. The tanks, now in full sight, moved with deadly purpose. The Panzer I tanks led the charge, their small guns barking as they provided cover for the larger, more imposing Panzer II, III, and IV tanks that followed. Their engines roared, shaking the earth beneath Erich's boots.
The infantry, now behind the tanks, prepared to clear the way for the assault. They carried Panzerfausts, ready to destroy any anti-tank positions the Poles might have set up. Erich had seen these weapons in training—small, but deadly.
As the column moved forward, Erich's thoughts lingered for only a moment on what would follow. He knew that once the Panzers made their move, there would be no stopping them.
The Polish forces were in disarray. A few scattered rifle shots rang out from the tree line, but they were far from a real threat. The Germans had overwhelmed them from the skies, and now the ground forces would complete the job.
---
Chapter 4: Part 4 – The Blitzkrieg Unleashed
0930 Hours, 1 September 1939
500 meters from the Polish Border
Location: Across the Polish Defensive Line
The moment the signal was given, the Panzers surged forward. The ground shook as their tracks churned through the earth. The initial wave of Panzer I and II tanks stormed ahead, their machine guns cutting down the last vestiges of Polish resistance. The Panzer III and IV followed closely, their 75mm guns aimed at anything that still moved.
Erich's squad moved in behind the tanks, securing positions and mopping up any remaining resistance. The tanks smashed through barriers, rolling over obstacles as if they were made of paper. The Polish defensive positions—once carefully planned—now lay in ruin.
The Blitzkrieg had been unleashed. Erich felt the adrenaline coursing through his veins as the tanks rolled forward, unstoppable in their momentum. The Panzer III fired, sending plumes of smoke and fire into the air. The infantry followed closely, sweeping through the wreckage and securing the breach.
There was no turning back now. The German forces had broken through, and Poland was now under siege.
0600 hours | 500 meters into Polish territory
The dust hadn't settled yet. It clung to the air, to the soldiers, to the tanks that rumbled forward. The ground still bore the scars of the previous assault, and the battle's momentum seemed to slow as the weight of the operation pressed down on the advancing forces. The first light of morning, weak and diffused through the lingering smoke and fog, painted the battlefield in grim shades of grey.
Erich's squad moved cautiously through the quiet aftermath of the initial blitz. His boots sunk slightly into the wet earth as he walked behind the line of tanks, watching the horizon, alert for any sign of life. The Panzer I & II had already passed, their thin, metallic forms slicing through the gap in the Polish defenses. The Panzer III and IV rolled on, their bulk and firepower ensuring nothing was left standing in their wake.
For the infantry, this part of the operation was always the same. As the armored units tore through the enemy lines, it was the job of men like Erich to secure the area, clear out pockets of resistance, and establish a foothold. It wasn't glorious, and it certainly wasn't fast. The soldiers moved with grim determination, mopping up the remnants of the Polish defense, ensuring that no one was left to regroup.
The battle wasn't over, and there would be no respite. The immediate priority was to secure the breach, disrupt the Polish command, and prevent them from mounting a coherent defense. Every movement felt calculated, deliberate. The tanks weren't racing to the next objective; they were simply pushing forward, inch by inch, knowing that the longer they lingered, the more likely the enemy would have time to regroup.
The infantry followed behind, their rifles at the ready, scanning the rubble of the first engagement for any sign of resistance. Erich found himself looking back at the tanks, watching them advance without hesitation. They were a force of nature, unstoppable once they gained momentum. But the human element—the soldiers on the ground, the men who fought in the shadows of the metal giants—were just as crucial to the success of the operation.
Behind them, the rumble of artillery and the whine of dive bombers—Stukas—punctuated the tense silence. The Luftwaffe was already making its mark, strafing the Polish positions with precision. Each dive bomb seemed to shake the very earth beneath Erich's feet.
But there was no time to marvel at the destruction. The Panzers were moving forward, and the mission was clear: secure the breakthrough, encircle the enemy, and push deeper into Polish territory.
Erich felt his pulse quicken as he took the first step forward. The adrenaline was there, just beneath the surface, though the pace had slowed considerably. The war had just begun for them, and it felt like it would never end. Each small victory—each step forward—was a battle within itself.
He looked toward the horizon where more tanks were advancing, their silhouettes cutting through the smoky morning light. Poland was under siege, and there was no turning back.
0800 Hours | 2 kilometers into Polish territory
Location: West of the breached defensive line, approaching a small village
The roar of the advancing Panzers had long since faded into the distance, replaced by a muffled thrum beneath the earth. Erich's squad was no longer at the forefront of the attack, but the aftershock of their assault rippled through the ground beneath their boots. The sky was overcast, heavy clouds rolling in from the west, darkening the horizon. A chill had settled over the land, cutting through the sweat-soaked uniforms of the men.
They moved steadily, positioning themselves behind the heavy armor that carved through the Polish defenses like a knife through butter. The Panzer I and II tanks, small and nimble, darted ahead in irregular patterns, skirmishing with scattered Polish positions. These tanks weren't designed to engage in prolonged battles but to create chaos, and they did so with frightening efficiency. The tanks' machine guns rattled in sporadic bursts, clearing the paths for the larger, heavier Panzers behind them.
The air was thick with the acrid scent of burning fuel and metal, and the ground seemed to tremble with every explosion that detonated nearby. Erich's boots sank into the soft earth as he moved alongside his squad. His fingers itched for the familiar grip of his rifle, but he knew that this phase of the operation required more than just the immediate engagement with enemy soldiers. This was about control—control over the flow of the battlefield, over the enemy's freedom to maneuver.
The infantry, moving in tight formations, were tasked with securing key positions and ensuring that the rapidly advancing Panzers didn't lose their momentum. Each man, whether armed with a rifle or a grenade, played his role in the machine, silently acknowledging their place in the destruction.
Erich's thoughts were cut short by the crackling of his radio, followed by a voice, low and urgent:
"Panzer I, come in. Flank left, push deeper into the woods. Clean up any resistance on the edge of the village. Repeat—clear the left flank. Over."
He didn't need to ask who it was—Helmut's voice was unmistakable. The orders were coming down from the command, and the execution had to be precise. Every movement, every decision, had to be swift and deliberate. If they didn't maintain the momentum, the entire operation could stall, and the Poles would regroup and counterattack.
"Understood," Erich muttered, his voice barely rising above the noise of the ongoing offensive. He nodded to Jonas, who was a few paces ahead, his young face taut with focus. They needed to secure the left flank, the area ahead where the first signs of resistance had begun to gather.
The squad moved in silence, their boots crunching the uneven ground as they followed the path cut by the Panzers. Every man was alert, eyes darting from side to side as they scanned for any sign of ambush. The thick trees that bordered the village were now the greatest danger—forests were where Polish forces could potentially regroup and prepare for a counteroffensive. This was the moment when the Germans needed to cut off escape routes, prevent any reorganization of enemy troops.
A sudden burst of fire erupted from the underbrush ahead, followed by the unmistakable snap of rifle rounds hitting the earth. Instinctively, the squad dropped to a knee, their rifles raised, eyes flicking toward the sound. Erich's heart rate spiked for a moment, but he forced himself to remain calm. It wasn't a full assault—just a few scattered shots meant to delay their advance.
"Move forward!" Erich barked to his squad, his voice steady despite the adrenaline that surged in his veins. Helmut had been right; the left flank was about to give way. They had to secure the area before the Poles had a chance to regroup and fortify their positions.
Erich signaled for Jonas and Meissner to follow him as they pushed forward toward the trees, their footsteps muffled by the tall grass and uneven terrain. The village lay just beyond the treeline, its small, dilapidated buildings visible between gaps in the thick foliage. The rest of the squad spread out, taking position behind a low stone wall that marked the edge of a small farm.
Jonas fired first, a quick burst from his rifle as he caught sight of movement in the trees ahead. A Polish soldier, seemingly just as surprised, fell to the ground with a muffled cry. The rest of the squad followed, moving methodically, ensuring they didn't fall into a trap. They could hear the faint sound of shouting and the crack of gunfire further down the road—the Panzers had already moved on, continuing to wreak havoc deeper into the Polish countryside.
But this wasn't the real battle. The battle was about what came next. It was about forcing the enemy into a corner, pushing them toward a position where they could be trapped, isolated, and neutralized.
Erich motioned for the squad to advance, keeping low and moving quickly. The area around the village was becoming more tense, every rustle in the trees setting his nerves on edge. His eyes constantly flicked from side to side, scanning for anything that could turn this moment into a disaster. There was no room for hesitation—no room for mistakes.
They reached the edge of the village, where a dilapidated farmhouse stood half-ruined. A few soldiers had taken refuge there, crouched behind the walls. The squad was quick, coordinated—a few well-placed shots silenced the enemy, and the area was quickly secured. The Germans had created another hole in the Polish lines, another piece of real estate in their favor.
"We've secured the position," Erich said into his radio, breathing out slowly as he surveyed the area. The team had cleared out any resistance in the immediate area. He looked down the road ahead, where the heavy tanks continued their forward march, but the real work had only just begun. The Polish forces were being squeezed. There was no room to retreat, and that was the way it needed to be
1000 Hours | 5 kilometers from the village
Location: Approaching the outskirts of another small village, Polish rear defenses
The morning was slowly slipping into afternoon, the sky still clouded and heavy, as if the very atmosphere had been altered by the brutal events unfolding on the ground. The sound of artillery had become a constant hum in the distance, the deep boom of howitzers and the crackle of small arms fire marking the ongoing chaos of the battlefield. It was an atmosphere that felt like the world was holding its breath, waiting for the next strike to land.
Erich and his squad had moved deeper into Polish territory, the village behind them now far out of sight. The landscape was changing. Gone were the open fields that had allowed for swift maneuvering. Now, they found themselves traversing narrow roads lined with sparse trees and thick hedgerows, the dense undergrowth creating both an advantage and a challenge. The further they moved, the more dangerous it became—no longer were they simply pushing forward into empty space, but into the heart of the enemy's defense.
The plan had been clear: cut off their retreat, neutralize any remaining reserves, and cripple their ability to resist. But there were still pockets of resistance. The deeper they pushed, the more the Poles dug in. Erich's ears were alert to every crackling branch, every rustle of underbrush.
"We've got to make sure the flanks are secure," Erich muttered, half to himself, as he checked his map. The reconnaissance units had reported enemy forces still holding the village a few kilometers ahead, and it wasn't going to be easy to crack it. The Panzers couldn't simply bulldoze through every position; the infantry needed to be methodical, careful not to leave any gaps for Polish forces to exploit.
Helmut, his calm and collected second-in-command, moved alongside him, his rifle slung across his back. His face was drawn, the strain of the past few days evident in his eyes. But Helmut wasn't one to show weakness, even now.
"Poles are regrouping further up," he said, pointing down the road. "They've set up some heavy resistance along the crossroads. We'll need to clear it before the Panzers get too close. They're not made for this kind of terrain."
Erich nodded. "We'll hit them hard, clear the crossroads, and ensure the tanks can follow. No mistakes."
The air was thick with the smell of diesel fuel and damp earth as they moved forward in a tight column. Their boots crunched against the loose gravel of the road as they approached the crossroads—a small, seemingly insignificant place, but in the chaos of war, it was a lifeline for the enemy. The village had likely been turned into a defensive stronghold. Its streets, narrow and winding, offered cover for the Polish forces. But they could not be allowed to remain in control. If they held this position, it would disrupt the German supply lines and create a gap in the encirclement.
The squad moved swiftly, checking their weapons one last time, adjusting their gear as they took their positions. Erich felt the familiar weight of the rifle in his hands, the cool metal of the barrel a comforting reminder of the work ahead. Every step, every decision, could mean life or death.
"Jonas, Meissner, sweep the far side of the road. We'll take the left," Erich ordered, his voice calm but firm. Jonas nodded, his young face hard with resolve, though the tension in his eyes betrayed his nerves.
The air was still as they crouched low, moving closer to the crossroads, their movements careful. Every minute that passed felt like an eternity as they neared the edge of the village. Through the trees ahead, they could just make out the faint silhouette of a Polish soldier peering around a corner. A brief flash of his rifle caught the sunlight—just enough to give him away.
"Stay sharp," Erich hissed, his voice barely above a whisper.
Jonas was the first to move, sliding into position behind a small stone wall. A moment later, he fired. A quick, sharp burst, and the Polish soldier collapsed with a muffled thud. The squad moved swiftly to close the distance, clearing each corner with precision, a well-drilled machine that never hesitated.
As they reached the center of the village, they encountered more resistance. This wasn't the disorganized, panicked defense they had encountered on the way in—it was methodical, deliberate. Polish forces had dug in, using the dense buildings and walls to their advantage. Small arms fire erupted from the windows of the nearest house, followed by the staccato crack of a machine gun from a nearby outbuilding.
"Grenades!" Erich barked, and Meissner and Jonas quickly threw a pair into the building. The explosion was immediate, followed by a stream of gunfire from the back, where another group of Polish soldiers had attempted to flank them.
The squad reacted instantly. Meissner and Helmut dropped to one knee, returning fire with deadly accuracy. Erich moved around the side, using the rubble for cover, while Jonas and the others pushed forward, closing the distance with the enemy.
They cleared the building swiftly, pushing the remaining defenders back into the narrow streets beyond, forcing them into a retreat. But the battle wasn't over yet—this was just the beginning. Polish troops, still holding a few key positions in the village, began to fall back toward the nearby hills, preparing for a counterattack.
"Don't let them regroup," Erich shouted as he relayed the orders over the radio. "Push forward, force them into a corner."
The battle had escalated quickly, but Erich was focused on the bigger picture. They were still a few kilometers away from their primary objective, but the encirclement was closing in. As the squad continued to clear the village, he knew that this small victory, these small movements, would lead to something far greater.
Behind them, the sound of rumbling engines grew louder—the Panzers were closing in.
1100 Hours, 1 September 1939
Location: Village of Kępa, 12 kilometers southeast of the Polish border
The sound of the Panzers reverberated in the air, a dull, rhythmic thrum that filled the silence between each exchange of gunfire. The village of Kępa was a key position, a small settlement strategically situated on the road leading deeper into Poland. Its capture would secure the German advance, a vital link on the road to Warsaw.
Erich's squad had followed closely behind the tanks, their footsteps a constant crunch against the gravel roads, only to be interrupted by the screech of artillery fire or the rhythmic pulse of machine guns. The air was thick with the acrid scent of gunpowder, burning wood, and the metallic tang of blood.
The Panzers I and II, their light frames darting ahead, pushed past the smoke of the initial assault, clearing out pockets of resistance and sowing chaos in their wake. The sound of their guns was deafening, the rapid-fire bursts splitting the air as they cleared every last ditch attempt to slow the German advance. Erich could hear the low growl of the Panzer III behind them, the rumble of the heavier tanks moving with lethal intent.
Erich squinted against the sun, his hand shielding his eyes as he scanned the landscape. The smoke was still heavy, and he could make out the outlines of buildings, some half-destroyed, others still standing. The Polish forces were clearly on the back foot now, retreating as fast as they could from the pounding assault. He could hear the distinct thudding of mortar rounds, their explosion sending plumes of dirt and debris into the air.
"Private Jonas, check that building!" Erich barked, his voice hoarse as he pointed toward a nearby two-story structure that had become a point of last resistance. From the look of things, it was fortified with a few machine guns and a handful of soldiers attempting to hold their ground. The walls of the building were riddled with bullet holes, and smoke billowed from several gaps where the tanks had struck.
Jonas nodded grimly and ducked into the alley, his rifle slung over his shoulder as he sprinted toward the building. Erich watched him go, his thoughts briefly drifting to the boy's youth, to the naive optimism that had vanished within the first few hours of battle. It wasn't long before Erich was brought back to the present by the staccato fire of a nearby MG34, its muzzle flashing from the cover of a small barn on the opposite side of the street.
"Meissner, take your team and flank that position," Erich ordered.
The veteran nodded, his face impassive. Meissner had seen enough to know what to do without question. Within seconds, he and his squad dashed across the street, using the crumbled stone fences as cover, moving in time with the rising noise of advancing Panzers.
Erich's heart thudded in his chest as he surveyed the scene. The speed of the Blitzkrieg was overwhelming. The Polish soldiers, caught in the vice between the Panzer assault and the infantry clearing their rear, had little time to think, let alone organize an effective counterattack. Yet, some still fought with desperation, refusing to surrender.
As Erich crouched behind a broken cart, watching his men advance, a sudden roar from the skies shattered the moment. The Luftwaffe had arrived. The shrill sound of dive bombers echoed overhead, followed by the distinctive roar of Stukas as they swooped down with terrifying precision. Below, explosions wracked the village, sending bricks and mortar into the air as though the earth itself was being torn apart. The bombs struck the town square and the remaining Polish defenses, tearing through them like paper.
The Germans were making quick work of Kępa. There were no fortified lines left, no more organized pockets of resistance. The few Polish soldiers who hadn't surrendered or fled were being flushed out, picked off by the relentless advance.
Erich scanned the horizon again, looking for the next phase of the assault. His radio crackled. "Stahl, the infantry will continue securing the village," the voice of his commanding officer, Hauptmann Becker, said. "Your team is to advance along the southern flank and support the Panzers as they press on. We can't afford to lose momentum."
"Understood, sir," Erich replied, turning to Jonas and Helmut. "We're moving out. Stay sharp."
They moved quickly, jogging alongside the advancing armor, crossing the now-smoldering streets of Kępa. The pace of the battle had quickened to a near fever pitch. Already, they were looking beyond Kępa, beyond the immediate objective, to the next vital position—the next city, the next choke point to secure. Erich felt a grim sense of urgency pressing down on him. Every mile gained, every inch of ground taken, was crucial. The weight of the war was on his shoulders, pressing him forward into the unknown.
The sound of the advancing Panzers behind them, the rapid-fire bursts of their machine guns and cannon, were like a warning bell, signaling the approaching storm. With Kępa now in German hands, there was no turning back. The Polish forces were in disarray, and the encirclement had begun.
Erich couldn't help but wonder how long this chaos would last, how much longer it would be before the Polish defenses truly crumbled. He'd seen this before—he'd studied it in history books—but seeing it unfold before his eyes was different. The cruelty, the speed, the overwhelming force—it was all so much more real.
The radio crackled again. "Continue your advance. Next objective is Kraków."
With the village of Kępa in their rearview, the Germans pushed forward, ever deeper into Poland, as the war machine thundered on.
1400 Hours, 1 September 1939
Location: 20 Kilometers East of Kępa, Near the Vistula River
The battle had become a relentless storm, a blur of smoke, fire, and the sound of destruction. The German forces were no longer just advancing—they were surging forward in a massive, unstoppable wave, and nothing seemed capable of halting them. The initial shock had hit the Polish defenders hard, but the reality of the blitzkrieg was settling in. The German assault was too fast, too coordinated, and too overwhelming.
Erich's squad had been at the forefront of the push, moving through the shattered landscape of the Polish countryside. The fields that had once been lush with crops were now craters, filled with debris and scorched earth. The horizon was filled with the distant columns of smoke rising from the remnants of villages and towns, a grim reminder of the havoc being wreaked.
The Panzers, now well into their stride, continued to push forward with remarkable precision. The Panzer III and IV tanks were a deadly sight—heavily armored and armed with powerful 75mm guns. They tore through anything in their path, their tracks churning the earth as they crossed through the now-ruined villages.
The Luftwaffe, ever-present, provided constant air support. The Stukas had begun their dive-bombing runs, their iconic wail filling the air before the deafening explosions that followed. The sound of bomb after bomb hitting their targets was enough to rattle the nerves of any soldier, but the effect was devastating—Polish resistance was being systematically broken down, their morale crushed by the constant bombardment.
Erich's squad had been assigned to clear out any remaining enemy forces behind the main thrust. The tanks had already moved ahead, but there were still pockets of resistance to mop up. The Polish infantry, while clearly in retreat, had managed to dig in at several key positions along the Vistula River. The river itself was a natural obstacle, but the Germans had anticipated it, and with the speed of the blitzkrieg, the crossing was already planned.
"Stahl, move up to the river," ordered Hauptmann Becker, his voice crackling over the radio. "The Poles are attempting to establish a defensive line along the water. We can't let them regroup. Secure the crossing. The Panzers will follow in behind you."
"Roger that, sir," Erich replied, signaling to his men. He motioned for Jonas, Helmut, and Meissner to move up. They had already been moving quickly, but now the pace increased as they jogged toward the southern bank of the Vistula. The sound of artillery could still be heard in the distance, and the air was thick with the smell of burning wreckage.
By the time they reached the riverbank, the situation was already chaotic. The Polish forces had attempted to fortify the positions along the river's edge, hoping that the natural barrier would give them some advantage. But the German forces were already deploying a new tactic—bridging the river with makeshift pontoons and forcing their way across with infantry support.
Erich's team came under fire almost immediately, the sharp crack of Polish rifles cutting through the air. He ducked instinctively, the bullet pinging off the ground near his feet. The riverbank was littered with debris—abandoned weapons, the bodies of fallen soldiers, and the wrecks of vehicles that had been destroyed in the advance.
"Suppressing fire!" Erich yelled, his voice rising above the chaos as he signaled for his team to lay down fire. Meissner and Helmut quickly opened up with their rifles, while Jonas, still green but growing more capable by the minute, tossed a grenade toward the closest Polish position.
The explosion was deafening, sending dirt and shrapnel into the air. For a moment, there was nothing but smoke and confusion. The Polish soldiers, caught off guard by the sudden assault, were in disarray. Erich seized the opportunity and motioned for his team to advance.
They pushed forward, moving carefully along the riverbank, staying low and using the wreckage for cover. The sound of gunfire continued to echo across the river, but it was becoming clear that the Polish defense was faltering. The weight of the German assault, the speed of their advance, and the coordination between the tanks, infantry, and air support had shattered their resolve.
By the time they reached the makeshift bridge that spanned the Vistula, the first wave of Panzers had already begun to cross. The infantry followed closely behind, securing the far side of the river. The Poles had few defenses left, and those that remained were scattered, uncoordinated, and retreating.
Erich and his squad moved quickly across the bridge, now fully under German control. On the other side, the landscape was more open—fields stretching out in all directions, the occasional farmhouse in the distance. It was here, amidst the rural sprawl of Poland, that Erich began to understand the true scale of the operation. The Germans weren't just fighting a battle—they were attempting to reshape the very landscape of Europe. Entire regions, cities, and people were being swept up in the tide of war.
As the Panzers began to roll across the bridge, their engines roaring like the thunder of war, Erich couldn't shake the feeling of foreboding that had settled in his chest. The victory at the riverbank, though crucial, had come at a cost. The men were tired, worn down by the constant pressure, and yet they pressed on. It was the nature of the war, the nature of Blitzkrieg—a relentless, unforgiving force that left no room for hesitation.
"Next stop, Kraków," Erich muttered to himself as he watched the tanks move forward. His squad followed behind, preparing for whatever lay ahead. The storm of steel, as he had come to think of it, was not yet over