THE LAST GOOD WAR: A Novel (30 page)

Enigma would never again be secure; there would be no more happy hunting for U-boats in the Atlantic.

19
The Last, Fleeting Hope

In anguish we uplift
A new unhallowed song:
The race is to the swift;
The battle to the strong.
John Davidson (1857-1909)
War Song

22 June, 1942. With the British Eight Army,
West of Alexandria, Egypt.

K
az and Jan had become hardened to bad news: the fall of Poland; the collapse of France; the rapid advance of Hitler's legions into the vast expanses of the Soviet Union.

But they were unprepared for the gloom when they arrived in North Africa. After a siege of scarcely one week, the heavily-fortified port of Tobruk had just surrendered to Rommel's army.

“Defeat is one thing; disgrace is another,” was Churchill's depressed and caustic comment.

The Desert Fox, who had been struggling with extended supply lines, now possessed not only the port but also huge quantities of British materiel. His panzers were moving inexorably east toward El Alamein, only sixty miles from the Nile River. Mussolini had already flown to North Africa, strutting and preening in preparation for a triumphant entry into Cairo.

The British were hurriedly fortifying and mining a defensive line near El Alamein—the best hope of preventing Rommel's troops from reaching the Nile. To the north of the line lay the Mediterranean; to the south the impenetrable Qattara Depression. If the Germans broke through, their tanks would fan out across the desert, threatening the whole allied position in Egypt.

Alarmed, Churchill visited Cairo. The main result: Gen. Bernard Montgomery was given command. The stage was set for a desert showdown. To bolster Montgomery, his American allies agreed to send several hundred of their new Sherman tanks by the only safe route—around the Cape of Good Hope and through the Suez Canal.

Kaz and Jan were part of the Polish advanced party, preparing for the main force. As more Poles arrived, they would be quickly organized into a reserve unit, to be committed in case of a threatened German breakthrough.

But there was none. In a final push, Rommel lost 50 tanks, most victims to dense minefields. He then withdrew to defensive positions, laying equally dense minefields of his own. Gradually, as new equipment arrived, the balance of power tilted toward Montgomery. But he had no intention of blundering unprepared into the German minefields; the Qattara Depression blocked any classic flanking move by his tanks, just as it had blocked Rommel. His army began a period of intense training and preparation for a fall offensive.

As the dangers of a renewed German assault faded, Kaz and Jan received new orders. They were to report to the Polish authorities in London.

T
he Polish Government-in-exile was housed in three adjacent large townhouses. The dull October drizzle made them seem even more drab and nondescript than usual. Two nearby buildings were gutted; they had been hit during the Blitz. But now, as Allied power grew by the day, air-raid sirens had become a rare event. Nevertheless, the signs of war were everywhere. Traffic consisted of olive-drab military vehicles. Almost all the men, and a goodly proportion of the women, were in uniform.

When Kaz and Jan arrived, they went directly to the personnel office. The time had come, they thought, to resume their real identities. Kaz also wanted his rightful rank.

“I'm Captain Kazimierz Jankowski, reporting for duty from the Eight Army in Egypt.” Kaz half expected the Sergeant at the personnel office to object; Kaz was still wearing the uniform of a lieutenant. But there was no need for concern.

On the contrary, the Sergeant's response was a pleasant surprise. “Yes sir, we've been expecting you. I'm pleased to inform you, sir, that it's Major Jankowski. You've been promoted on the recommendation of Gen. Sikorski himself.”

Jan snapped a mock salute to Kaz, asking if he would be able to see him except by appointment.

“And you, sir, are...?”

“Lt. Janusz Tomczak.”

“Good news for you, too.... Capt. Tomczak.”

It was now Kaz's turn to mock his friend. The Polish army must be desperate for midlevel officers.

“There's a reason,” interjected the Sergeant, deadpan. It was scarcely his place to explain the promotions, but he mindlessly continued. “You'll be dealing with British and American officers. You get more respect with a higher rank.”

“We are,” thought Kaz, “about to become military politicians.”

Kaz and Jan would be working with Brigadier Pawel Piotrowski, who in turn reported to Gen. Sikorski. Jan would expedite supplies going to the Polish Army; Kaz would work on strategy. Sikorski must have been impressed with the two men, particularly Kaz, during their encounter in Moscow.

The Polish Government was struggling with its role in the Allied coalition. Relations with the Soviets had gone from bad to worse. The families of Anders' soldiers—left behind in the Soviet Union—were having trouble getting out. The Soviets were harassing the Polish Embassy in Moscow in countless ways, both petty and provocative. For the hundredth time, Kaz wondered why God hated the Poles so, to sandwich them between Germans and Russians—worse still, between the two great tyrannies of the 20th century: National Socialism and Communism.

Kaz's first meeting with Gen. Sikorski and Brig. Piotrowski came after a few weeks. Only four men were present in the small conference room—the General, the Brigadier, Kaz, and one Maj. Radek Korbonski, who, like Kaz, had fought in Poland. He had escaped through Romania, thus avoiding both German and Soviet prison camps. Sikorski opened the conversation:

“Well, Piotrowski, where are we on the Home Army?”

The Home Army—or AK
(Armia Krajowa)
—had been established at the time of the Polish defeat, as a way to harass the Germans and prepare for an uprising.

“The British are still dragging their feet, sir. Even if we set aside the tricky question—how weapons could actually be delivered to the Army—it's not clear the British really want to. I've been nagging Col. Copplestone over at the Joint Chiefs, but he keeps fobbing me off.”

“Keep trying,” Sikorski urged. “Remind them of Churchill's threat, that he'd 'set Europe aflame'—arming the resistance and making the occupied countries ungovernable.”

“If I could, sir, I've always been skeptical of Churchill's statement.” Piotrowski was speaking. “He was most enthusiastic right after the fall of France. The British were desperate. Grasping at anything they could—anything that held the faintest hope of defeating the Boche.”

“Churchill didn't really mean it?”

“He may have at the time, sir. But he's less desperate now. He can afford to be more realistic, recognizing what the resistance can and cannot do. He's settled on a limited role for them—collect intelligence and be ready to attack when the Huns are already vulnerable. For example, when the allies invade Poland or France.”

“You may be right. But keep pushing for weapons, to build up the Army's strength. And we still face the really tough question—
when
should we commit the army?”

Sikorski turned toward Kaz and Korbonski. “We've been struggling with this question for months. I'd like new, independent opinions. Be prepared to give me your views the next time we meet.”

“Yes, sir,” the two majors replied in unison.

K
ing George would be decorating Polish pilots. After the ceremony at Buckingham Palace, the fliers would be honored at the Polish Embassy.

It was a welcome break from the dreary routine of wartime London.

Sikorski appeared in a dashing dress uniform. He mingled easily with the crowd; he seemed to know almost everyone's name. Even when he didn't, he had a remarkable knack for pretending that he did.

“Flying Officer mumblemumble, this is Major mumblemumble.”

“Sorry, I didn't quite get your name,” said the Flying Officer.

“Starzenski,” replied Major mumblemumble.

An officer in a Flight Lieutenant's uniform approached. He was limping slightly. Kaz stepped back to let him join the group.

“I'd like you all to meet Flight Lt. Stanislav Ryk” said Sikorski, drawing him into the group. “He's been with the RAF for two years. Shot down nine German planes.”

“And was shot down twice myself,” said Ryk with a wry smile.

Sikorski went around the small group, telling Ryk everyone's name. This time, as he had heard Major Starzenski's name, he pronounced it clearly. But the Flying Officer was still mumblemumble. Again, Sikorski carried it off so smoothly that the listeners wondered if they should have their hearing checked.

When the introductions ended, Kaz congratulated Ryk on his Distinguished Flying Cross. “We all admire your courage. Certainly gives us a sympathetic hearing with the British.”

As the rest of the group drifted off, the two were left alone, comparing notes on the number one topic of the evening: how had they escaped from Poland? Kaz skipped the prison camps, and simply recounted his exit from the Soviet Union to Egypt. Ryk had managed to fly out in an old World War I contraption.

“Ryk? Ryk? We haven't met back in Poland, have we?”

“Not that I recall. Ryk is a common name where I come from.”

“And that is?”

“Fifty kilometers west of Warsaw.”

“Oh, that explains it. My wife grew up in that area.”

There was a pause.

“Lost track of her when the war started,” said Kaz sadly. “Can only pray she'll be there when I get back.”

Ryk wrestled with his conscience. But only for a moment. His conscience lost. Why should I tell him? For that matter, why should I tell Anna?

S
ikorski and the three other officers met again at the end of the week. He turned to Kaz and Korbonski, picking up where the previous meeting left off. How and when should the Home Army be used? To clarify his thinking, Sikorski wanted the two to express their disagreements. Jankowski should begin. Korbonski could act as devil's advocate, raising objections as Kaz went along.

“Even when I agree with Maj. Jankowski, sir?

“For the moment, only when you disagree. We'll get back to other objections later.”

Kaz shifted uncomfortably in his chair. His relations with Korbonski were correct, but he couldn't describe them as warm or relaxed. The two were natural rivals for a senior position. Kaz didn't want to create additional stresses by engaging in debate; he was going to have to work with this man. But he could scarcely object to Sikorski's instructions. Perhaps they had something to do with the Byzantine struggles between Sikorski and the Polish President. Korbonski reported directly to the President. His views—expressed in the heat of debate—might give Sikorski a better fix on the President's tough views toward the Soviet Union.

It might also be Sikorski's way of dealing with the curse of leadership. His officers were eager to tell him exactly what he wanted to hear—or, more precisely, what they thought he wanted to hear. By the grapevine, Kaz had learned, with more than a touch of pride, that Sikorski considered him a rare jewel. When Kaz was asked his opinion, he actually gave it. Politely, but directly and without varnish.

Kaz took a deep breath.

“If it were just a matter of fighting Germans, the problem wouldn't be too difficult. We should strike as the Red Army approaches Warsaw, when the Germans are most vulnerable.... But it's more complicated, sir. Our interests differ sharply from the Russians. We all want to defeat Hitler. But they want a Communist regime in postwar Poland. We don't.”

“Jankowski put his finger on the problem,” interjected Brig. Piotrowski. “But there's one more actor—the Polish Communists. They're gaining strength.” Piotrowski had guts, too. That would scarcely come as good news to Sikorski.

Sikorski turned back to Kaz, who picked up his story.

“The Polish Communists may try to get the Home Army to revolt too soon, in the hope that they'll be wiped out. The Commies may taunt the Home Army—what good are they if they won't fight?”

“Exactly,” said Sikorski.

Kaz continued: “But even suppose that the Home Army picks precisely the right time—they attack the Germans in the rear as Russians approach the Vistula River and Warsaw. Things may still turn out very, very badly.”

“Why?” Sikorski asked. Kaz suspected that the General already knew, and simply wanted an independent opinion.

“Let's look at it from Stalin's viewpoint. Why shouldn't he simply hold up on the east side of the river, and let the Germans crush the Home Army? Seems ruthless, but he's already shown—with the massacres at Katyn and elsewhere—that he wants our leadership exterminated. And he did
that
when he was losing. Why should he have scruples once he starts winning? After all, he's the one who had his generals shot—and the prewar leadership of the Polish Communist Party, too—for reasons I still can't fathom.”

“So I shouldn't have consented to the pleas of your General Anders?” asked Sikorski. “You should have been left in Russia, to advance with the Red Army. Then you could have come to the aid of the Home Army at a critical time.”

“In my opinion, sir, the decision to leave the Soviet Union was correct.”

Korbonski spoke up. “That's where I disagree.”

“Ah, but perhaps that's because you were already in Britain.
You
weren't trapped in Russia.”

“That's really unworthy of you, Jankowski. I think...”

Sikorski cut him off. “It's too late to undo the decision. But why was it correct, Jankowski?”

Kaz swallowed hard. “You're familiar with the arguments that General Anders made in Moscow, sir. The impossible position of any Polish army fighting alongside the Russians—waking up every morning, wondering which way they'd have to point their guns.

“I see only one way out of our difficulties with Russia. That's if Churchill persuades the Americans to attack into the Balkans, through Crete and Greece—what he quaintly calls the 'soft underbelly of Europe.'