Warsaw
22-12-1919
As if luck took the armored crew’s side for once, it was cold. Very cold. And thus, the fuel froze inside their tanks. An ‘Issue for later’, as Strecker would call it.
Strecker watched from across the camp as Krammer talked with the colonels of the 15th and the 17th. His eyes narrowed slightly; he noticed it again. Krammer had been acting differently recently, more careful, as if he’d be scared to break a promise.
After a while, Strecker walked over to the trio.
“Strecker, guide the artillery,” said Krammer, “15th and 17th will flank from the north and the east respectively, I will follow after giving you your orders to cease fire.”
Strecker nodded along, his gaze downcast. “So I will stay here? Orchestrate our mighty fifteen pieces of artillery from the 1800s and make sure that our men don’t start another uprising?”
“Genau, Strecker. Watch your mouth next time.”
As was commanded, as was done.
“Herr Oberst..” cried a soul to the colonel of the 15th. The colonel did not hear a thing; he was too preoccupied with the task at hand. “SABRES!” yelled the colonel, drawing his own. The sound of five dozen others following the example rippled through the air;
“FIFTEENTH!”
The cavalists waited in anticipation.
“Im Galopp, CHARGE!”
An amount of horses equal to the amount of men—a dream to the Freikorps—charged into the outskirts of the city, slowly moving towards the centre; making sure to take out any and all that stood in their way.
Fifteen crews of artillerists.
Thirty-three men, somehow.
Strecker counted again, his eyes narrowing as he somehow counted a thirty-fourth person. He sighed, raising his sabre high. In very disorganised sequence, each crew’s ‘Commander’ raised a small banner, signifying that their cannon is set.
“From the left!”
“Ripple!”
“Fire!”
As was commanded, as was done.
This time, the sequence was organised—perfect. ‘Practice makes perfect’, Strecker thought in all his secret pride for the Freikorps.
He pointed his sabre forwards, murmurs of commanders filled the air. He raised his sabre again—most commanders were able to raise their small banner almost instantly. A few took nearly double the time of the rest. Faded, was his pride.
“Volley!”
“Fire!”
Perfect unison.
The cycle repeated three more times, which was when there was no ammo left.
Krammer nodded at Strecker, Strecker returned the gesture. Into the city the company went, leaving behind a group of exhausted artillery crews.
Sabres in the front, rifles in the rear. Krammer’s thought process reflected on how they went. After some three-hundred meters, the first results of the shelling could be found.
Fifteenth ‘Honor lancers’ and seventeenth ‘Mounted rifles’ both moved into the city at full force, cutting down any and all that they came across.
Krammer gave the order; Charge.
Sabres in the front charged, the rifles followed at a slower pace, picking off those on the rooftops and those that could not be reached by traditional means.
The 17th faced resistance near Mokotów.
They formed a line, repeating the tactics of the Reich’s former major mounted infantry units. They stood up atop their horses, shooting at those who dared to peek out from elevated grounds. A group of three sat down again, charging at the position. They each threw a grenade, before galloping back to the line. Gone, was the position.
In such manner, the fighting continues. Both sides faced losses, yet the Freikorps were angry for what happened the day prior. As such, they were reckless, which somehow caused more casualties on the side of the socialists than on the side of the government.
The three met in the city centre around 15:23. As if called for, a scout returned at the same time; foreign volunteers were coming to aid the socialists.
16:24, they organised back at the camp. Krammer ordered Strecker to call Berlin, which he did. Freikorps Noske was to depart that same day, to reach Warsaw and encircle it.
