August 15, 1939
Second Polish Republic
Kielce Voivodeship
Radom
Barracks of the 72nd Infantry Regiment
Crack! Crack! These sounds yanked Sergeant Andrzej Boruta from his sleep. Someone was banging on the door of his private quarters without a shred of mercy. The room was shrouded in darkness; that was the first thing he noticed as his mind began to function again. The conclusion was obvious: someone was waking him long before reveille.
To see the clock hanging on the wall opposite his bed, he turned on the electric lamp on his desk. The hands informed Boruta that it was twenty-four minutes past four in the morning. Less than two hours remained until reveille.
"This brat better have a good excuse for waking me," the sergeant grumbled to himself, in a foul mood. His back really hurt that night; an unremoved Austrian bullet was acting up due to the rainy weather from the previous day. Because of this, he had been lying on a hot water bottle to dull the pain a bit.
He particularly disliked having to pull his back away from it. After all, he couldn't participate in today's Soldier's Day with a perpetually grimaced face. How would that look?
Adjusting his pajamas and slipping into warm slippers, he marched toward the door, which was being subjected to a continuous series of increasingly frantic knocks, as the sergeant noticed.
"What is it?" he barked angrily as he swung the door wide open.
A young soldier, already dressed in full uniform, whom Boruta recognized as the company commander's personal adjutant, Private* Michał Nowotko, jumped back startled; for a moment, the sergeant appeared to be the very devil himself.
Fortunately, under the stern eye of the famous sergeant, he quickly regained his composure.
"Captain Jakub Wajda requests your presence in the officers' hall," said Nowotko in a dry tone. "I was afraid you'd passed away, I've been knocking for several minutes. You're a very heavy sleeper," he added after a moment.
The sergeant sensed the young man's unease as he said this.
"Heavy? Boy, you must have been knocking weakly. I'm easy to wake," Boruta retorted.
"I wouldn't say so, your door creaked every time I hit it. Like this," Nowotko demonstrated, pounding his fist as before.
Boruta had to concede he was right; the door shook every time Nowotko's fist struck it. Enough that he feared the young private might break through it.
"I see," Boruta replied, then returned to the subject. "May I know why the Captain ordered you to knock on my door at four in the morning?"
"I don't know, Sergeant," Nowotko shook his head. "Stefan, one of the radio operators, woke me. He was really agitated about something but wouldn't tell me what. He just advised me to hustle as fast as I could. He took me to the Captain, who was talking to the Major. Both were speaking animatedly, and their faces showed concern. Then the Captain ordered me to wake you and the other NCOs. So please forgive me, but I must go, I've wasted enough time on you."
Nowotko then ran off, leaving Boruta alone with his thoughts.
"Well, this doesn't look good," he muttered to himself. "Though it's sure to be interesting," he added after a moment.
Boruta was neither the first nor the last NCO or officer to be rudely yanked from his bed that night. The small room in which the sergeant now found himself was already largely filled to the brim with yawning soldiers, often irritated by their sudden eviction from warm beds. Complaints filled the room from wall to wall.
It's hard to blame them; anxiety about the Germans was one thing, but looking presentable for the holiday was another. Lack of sleep would affect their appearance and behavior, and civilians would notice, which wouldn't help maintain the peace. So crucial in these times, when the nation had to unite around a common cause.
Especially against a power as formidable as Germany.
"Hey, Boruta! Come over here, come on!" the sergeant heard a call. Andrzej wanted to grimace; the owner of that voice was the last person he wanted to hear at this moment. With a certain desperation, he tried to simultaneously play deaf and look for another sergeant, one who didn't annoy him with constant chatter.
To his misfortune, the sergeant he liked to exchange a word or two with stood next to the undesirable one. Seeing this, Boruta abandoned all hope as he crossed the gates of hell. He put on his best face, one that could break an average person just by looking at it, for it was stern and cold, then approached the other two.
"I see our battalion devil is as awake as ever, huh?" said the disliked Sergeant Kamil Wesoły to Boruta. Someone less familiar with Wesoły would probably try to respond or take it as a rhetorical question. Which in Wesoły's case made little difference, as he would answer himself anyway.
"Boruta, do you know why they dragged us out of bed? Do you think it's because the Germans attacked, or did the Soviets test our country's defense system? Or maybe the Commander is trying to launch a surprise invasion of the country? Or perhaps some unexpected surprise at the holiday!? What do you think? Because I believe Hitler soiled his armor and attacked France unprepared for war instead of facing us, always ready for a fight!"
If Boruta's ears had their own consciousness and could speak, they would likely protest against such early torture. Unfortunately, little indicated that Wesoły, who loved his own voice excessively and was equally blind to the needs of others, would grant the mercy of shutting up. Preferably forever, as Boruta wished. Of course, it wasn't very Christian, but in his case, Boruta was willing to bend the rules. Especially since he was absolutely sure even the Blessed Virgin would lose patience with Wesoły.
Boruta looked at the second sergeant, the last of the three sergeants of the First Battalion. Senior Sergeant Henryk Bujda, like Boruta, was a veteran of the Great War and the War of 1920. With a silent gaze, he conveyed his strong wish to silence the young chatterbox.
Unfortunately, Bujda had no intention of silencing him, and the reason was simple. Wesoły's chatter, despite everything, helped keep everyone awake, counteracting the exhaustion and intense need for sleep that the tired bodies craved.
Fortunately for Boruta's morale and the unit's cohesion, Lieutenant Colonel Karol Chrobaczewski entered the room, silencing all conversations with his presence. He walked forward with even steps, through the corridor formed by the soldiers to allow him and his command staff to pass.
When he reached the slight elevation where everyone could see him, he cleared his throat and said, "Gentlemen, the matter at hand is extremely serious and incredibly delicate. What you are about to hear cannot, until it is officially announced, leave the walls of this room. In the event of a leak, a military court will handle the matter, and the penalties will be extremely severe, as I have been assured."
If anyone had trouble standing on their feet until now, the mysterious but simultaneously chilling announcement from the lieutenant colonel made thoughts of sleep vanish as quickly as the memory of dreams shortly after waking.
Boruta tensed up and focused all his attention on the lieutenant colonel. He wanted to know the reason for his sudden wake-up call.
Seeing the effect of his words, the lieutenant colonel paused to let everyone process them before continuing. "Currently, as you all know, our war-weary and partitioned homeland is overshadowed by both Germany and the Soviets. Both countries, just as our homeland managed to climb out of the grave it was pushed into over a century ago, have formed a not entirely formal but existing conspiracy aimed at restoring the 'eternal' status quo on these lands. I hope my men are sufficiently aware of the world situation so that I don't have to explain the obvious, or at least I hoped."
The last word caught Boruta's and others' attention.
"Hoped? What does he mean by that?" said Wesoły, and for the first time in a long while, Boruta considered it a reasonable question.
"Interesting, very interesting. So something has changed, making the threat of war irrelevant in the current calculation," Bujda said for the first time.
"Though he himself has trouble acknowledging it," Boruta added, noticing a certain nervousness in the lieutenant colonel. This was highly unusual since he had never before shown such behavior, and Boruta would never suspect him of cowardice.
"Gentlemen," the lieutenant colonel began again, "what you are about to hear requires… a certain openness of mind to phenomena that do not… quite fit into commonly accepted logic. I must admit that only the fact that I have received this information from Warsaw three times, stating that this is the current state of affairs and that I must announce it to the unit and put it on alert as soon as possible, makes me consider it the 'official' state of affairs."
"Get to the point, man," Boruta muttered, slightly impatient with this attempt to protect himself. The other two sergeants agreed with their colleague. Many other NCOs and officers came to the same conclusion.
Seeing the wave of murmuring, the lieutenant colonel decided to get to the point. "Ladies and gentlemen, the facts are as follows." He paused briefly as if struggling with himself, as if he couldn't believe what he was about to say.
"We are no longer on Earth," he finally said, in a calm yet grave tone.
August 15, 1939
Second Polish Republic
Kraków Voivodeship
Rakowice Kraków-Rakowice Airport
23rd Escort Squadron**
"The roosters greet the new day, mindlessly, driven only by instinct as if the world hadn't changed," thought Second Lieutenant Pilot Zdzisław Hirsz, hearing the crowing of roosters in the nearby villages. The news he had received last night was incomprehensible.
One might think it was a hallucination, strange dreams trying to mimic reality. Nevertheless, it was all, for now, true. Whether it would remain true or whether some pranksters in Warsaw had successfully fooled the communication officers at the airfield depended now on Hirsz and, of course, his colleagues from the II/2 Escort Squadron.
The orders they received, along with the news, were clear and specific. The 23rd Squadron was to take off at dawn and head south, where what used to be Czechoslovakia was located until recently.
They were to confirm the Border Guard reports in this area indicating a small but existing population beyond the former border. They were to conduct a preliminary reconnaissance of these areas within the limits of their capabilities and submit a comprehensive report to Warsaw as soon as possible.
This was the task for Hirsz and his colleagues, who were to fly the RWS-14 Czapla, a relatively new and modern escort aircraft produced under license by the state-owned LWS. Hirsz liked this aircraft, although he knew well that it was only a transitional model until the LWS-3 Mewa, hence it was not as numerous as the machines his colleagues from the 26th Squadron were flying, the Lublin .
They, in turn, had a task that Hirsz did not envy. A flight over German Upper Silesia, they were to check how far the anomaly extended on this section of the Polish-German border. According to the information received, only there the Border Guard did not report the disappearance of German territories and their replacement by a water body.
If this was true, Hirsz was absolutely sure that the Germans from Silesia would see it as an attempt to intrude and would try to shoot down the intruders at all costs. Given that the Lublin was much slower than the Czapla and had only one outdated Vickers K machine gun for self-defense, the chances of surviving an aerial encounter were rather slim.
"They're screwed," Hirsz muttered to himself, watching the Lublins take off.
"Excuse me?" said Lieutenant Observer Oskar Sablik, standing next to him, who was to fly with him.
"I said they're screwed," Hirsz repeated louder.
Oskar nodded, "Indeed, if the 110s don't tear them to pieces, the anti-aircraft artillery will. I don't know what Colonel Nazarkiewicz is thinking, sending them over Upper Silesia; Karas planes should be flying there, or at least an escort of Elevens*** to protect the Lublins."
"Maybe he's counting on shocking the Germans?" interjected Corporal Pilot Adam Bujak, who was listening to the conversation.
"On what basis do you think that?" asked Hirsz.
Bujak looked surprised, "Well, Lieutenant, think about it. If the Germans from Silesia were taken with us, they are in a much worse situation than we are. Their country has vanished somewhere, along with most of their army. The economy will collapse within the next few hours, while on the other side of the border, they still have their not-so-liked neighbor. They'll either be driven mad or fall into a stupor, not knowing what to do without their beloved Leader."
"And let's not forget that most of Upper Silesia is still Polish; after all, the borders were not drawn based on ethnic criteria. Any attempts to be aggressive towards, basically, reconnaissance aircraft that just want to observe the terrain in such an unfavorable ethnic ratio would be disastrous," added Sablik, following Bujak's remark.
"True, but remember, we're on the brink of war. Not everyone may believe the news and may see our aircraft as reconnaissance for an invasion," replied Hirsz.
"Funny you mention that," Bujak replied, "Because if you haven't noticed, if the news is true, it means we'll soon be assembling a team to enter Upper Silesia. After all, it's the perfect opportunity to correct the Versailles mistake."
"Another Zaolzie?" asked Sablik.
"Another Zaolzie," confirmed Bujak.
"That's true," agreed Hirsz, conceding to Bujak. If they were indeed no longer on Earth, or at least not in Europe, why should they stick to the existing agreements and borders? In such a situation, Poland's national interest was clear: to occupy any foreign territories that were easy to take. Especially since Upper Silesia was a rich and resourceful region, it would be a valuable acquisition for poor Poland.
The conversation was interrupted by the takeoff of the last of the Lublins.
"Okay, gentlemen, our turn now. We'll talk after we return," said Hirsz, patting Sablik on the shoulder. Their Czapla was to take off first.
"Sure, Zdzichu. See you when we get back," said Bujak, then added jokingly, "Just make sure no dragon burns your wings!"
"Dragon?" Hirsz was startled, then laughed at the joke. "That's a good one, did you hear that, Oskar?"
Oskar, with no less of a smile, nodded to his colleague. "I heard, I heard." Then, sitting in the observer's seat, he patted his movable Vickers F machine gun. "But first, we'd have to encounter it, and then it would have to withstand my fire."
"Oh! Exactly!" agreed Hirsz, getting into the plane. "I wonder if the dragon would like machine-gun fire," he added, pondering for a moment.
"Well, first, it would have to exist and then catch up with us," Sablik concluded, shouting over the sound of the engine starting and the accelerating propellers.
To this, Hirsz had no answer. He just chuckled, and when he got the go-ahead for the flight, he pulled the throttle****, and the plane began to gain speed, pushing everything forward. The takeoff didn't last long; as soon as the Czapla moved forward, it began to rise, leaving the airfield below.
The first leg of the flight was uneventful. Once they reached the appropriate altitude, Hirsz turned west towards Cieszyn. His reconnaissance sector was the westernmost of all the pilots and essentially covered the territory of Moravia.
During the flight, Hirsz looked down at the awakening country. He saw people heading to church for today's Feast of the Assumption in the villages and towns. The roads were filling up, and trains were running back and forth. Flying over Cieszyn, he saw the local garrison celebrating Soldier's Day with great pomp.
The closer they got to the border, the more visible the destruction became. Houses without roofs, fallen trees were some of the signs of the storm that had swept across Poland. Here at the border, where it had started, it was the strongest, and the effects were the most drastic.
As the observer, Sablik noted what he saw and took photographs. Occasionally, he pointed out something worth taking a closer look at.
He did not have to search for the border or ask his colleague for help. It was visible from the air as clear as day. It looked as if someone had taken two different puzzle pieces from two different places, cut them both, and glued the mismatched halves together.
Where there was Poland, there was densely populated but hilly terrain in the north and simply mountainous terrain of the Beskids in the south. But where the continuation of the area on the Czech side of the border should be, the land suddenly flattened out. Amusingly, from the air, a long strip of yellow sand running along the entire border was clearly visible.
"Oskar, what does that yellow strip remind you of?" Hirsz asked his companion, unsure what to call it.
Sablik leaned slightly to get a full view of the huge golden strip dividing the dark green of Polish land from the light green of the foreign territory. He nodded slightly and muttered something to himself, but due to the engine noise, Hirsz could not make out any of it.
Just as he was about to ask Sablik what he had seen, his companion suddenly grabbed the binoculars and began examining the strip, first from the left side of the plane and then from the right. This went on for a while before he tapped Hirsz on the shoulder, who had returned to monitoring the instruments, seeing he would get nothing from his colleague, and shouted:
"Let's make a small circle over this strip, fly as low as you can!"
Without a word, Hirsz nodded and fulfilled his colleague's request. He sharply tilted the stick to the left, and the aircraft obediently began to turn in that direction. Then, as he approached Poland again, he made another turn so that, flying north—or at least where north should be, as the compass indicated south, which puzzled the pilot—he could fly over the mysterious strip.
He lowered the flight as much as possible, realizing the scale of the drop. By eye, it was at least fifty meters difference in ground level between the two lands. In some places, one could see how the Polish soil had slid down, dragging trees along with it.
The pilot was astonished by what he saw, silently staring at the unprecedented anomaly. Sablik saw it too but was more focused on the golden soil or, as it turned out to be:
"It's sand, damn beach sand!" the observer finally spoke up.
"Beach sand?" Hirsz was even more surprised than before.
"Yes!" shouted Sablik back. "Look!" he said, pointing the pilot directly at an object on the sand.
"What the…" Hirsz stopped, not finishing his sentence, noticing the object he was pointed to. He deliberately lowered the flight even more so that he roughly aligned with it horizontally.
"Holy shit," Hirsz finally said as they flew silently past a building that was unmistakably a fishing port. On the long and high pier, to which the now lying boats and lifeless boats held by mooring ropes were attached, they saw a group of people dressed as they had seen in books.
Historical books, depicting engravings of people's clothing from centuries ago.
They were close enough to the pier to see how those people were no less amazed than the two Poles and completely stunned. Some even dropped tools from their hands during the flight.
"Well..." Sablik began. "...apparently, they make excellent ropes, don't they, Zdzichu?" the observer tried to joke.
Hirsz nodded. "True, not bad," he replied, trying to pull the joke, but neither of them felt like laughing. The return to the previous altitude passed in silence; neither of the pilots felt like commenting on what they had seen.
Only when they were back at their previous altitude did Hirsz speak again. "Okay, let's get back to the task. Oskar, do you remember the orders?"
Sablik needed a moment longer to understand his colleague's request. "Yes, clear orders, orders," he said quickly, digging out what he was looking for in his notebook. He cleared his throat and began to read.
"Head towards the Cieszyn Silesia area, cross the border at the Zaolzie section, and observe the terrain up to four hundred kilometers into unknown territory. In case of encountering enemy forces, break contact and immediately return to base."
"Thank you, Oskar," Hirsz replied. "I understand that you know what you're doing?" he added after a moment to make sure his colleague remembered.
"Yes, yes, I know! Taking photos," Sablik quickly replied, thanking his colleague inwardly for grounding him, if one could use such a term for someone sitting in an airplane.
The next hours passed in a peaceful flight into unknown territory. Sablik, during this time, took a massive series of photos and notes. Some of them later made their way into history books and school textbooks. As they went further and further northeast, as the compass indicated, although it should have been southwest according to their knowledge, the country became increasingly organized and populated.
Vast forests gave way to picturesque networks of fields and pastures. Small, tight, winding country roads turned into vast, stone-paved tracks, and huge caravans pulled by horses and other unfamiliar animals glided along them. Mainly such that looked like greatly enlarged emus, which they had seen in natural history books.
Both aviators scratched their heads wondering what kind of colorful chaos it was. Sometimes they lowered their flight to get a closer look at this or that marvel, but mainly they tried to fly relatively high.
"Okay, time to head home," said Hirsz, looking again at the fuel gauge. There was enough fuel left for another hundred kilometers before he would have to turn back, but he preferred to have a large reserve for any emergencies.
"Sure thing, Zdzichu, don't worry," replied Sablik. The observer thought they had had enough excitement for the day. The more he looked at this country, or countries, it was also a possibility, the more he felt unease and strangeness. Although what he knew firsthand, especially in many places, mainly in eastern Poland, people lived as they had for hundreds of years, so he had a comparison, but every now and then he saw things that completely did not fit with what he knew.
For example, large enclosures with large lizards. Once he saw one of them breathing fire, or at least he thought so, because it was brief and out of the corner of his eye. Common sense told him that it was a figment of his imagination or that something else was the source of the fire, but something didn't sit right with him.
Taking advantage of the fact that they were returning, he organized his thoughts in his notebook. In the meantime, he focused on the general landscape he had seen, and he had to admit that the country was beautiful. He smiled.
"Is this it, Zdzichu?"
"What is it?" Hirsz was surprised, especially since he heard joy from Sablik.
"What do you mean what? Flight!" Sablik replied. "Didn't the vision of a peaceful flight, at the expense of the state, admiring the beautiful views presented by the flight, appeal to you?"
Hirsz thought for a moment, sincerely, his inclination towards aviation was more driven by a sense of duty and the general mania of being a pilot rather than the prospect of flying and admiring views. It's not that he had a problem, although if he wanted to look at the world from above, he could go to the Tatras or the Beskids. Were there not enough high places with beautiful landscapes in Poland?
Hirsz looked to the left, down. The cultivated fields from this height looked like a painting. They were like the work of a great artist, who with the help of hundreds of assistants directed the crops to create a monumental work of art. One of a kind. Popping up here and there, villages and towns and a small river flowing between the fields were like... elements decorating the painting. They emphasized the palette of colors that the fields presented by themselves.
He nodded approvingly. "Well, it's certai..." he stopped when he turned his head to the other side. He squinted, far in the distance in the sky, he saw five black dots. He quickly reached for the binoculars to check who was flying.
He put them to his eyes, turned the wheel, and froze in place. Sablik, whose attention was drawn by the sudden interruption of the sentence, seeing that his companion didn't want to say anything, decided to follow his example and check for himself what he was looking for.
When he did, he cursed vehemently and added, "Bloody hell, those are dragons!"
Indeed, a group of five dragons with riders on their backs was flying on an intercept course. What the pilot noticed first, correcting the observer.
"So the Natives didn't like our flying," Hirsz quipped.
Sablik shook his head. "A true fighter! When there's an opportunity for a fight, your humor returns, doesn't it?"
"Not at all, just something's finally happening," Hirsz replied. "Besides, no need to worry. We'll be able to see if the dragons really like machine gun fire."
"Assuming they catch us, Lieutenant. For now, please give it full throttle, without worrying about fuel or the engine. I prefer not to provoke incidents," Sablik replied in an officer's tone.
"Yes, sir!" Hirsz exclaimed, pushing the throttle to the limit, and the Heron began to accelerate. The increase in speed wasn't overly significant, as the cruising speed at this altitude was relatively close to the maximum, although in their case, Hirsz was flying a bit slower, so the effect was greater.
Unfortunately, as it turned out a little later, it didn't help much. The dragon riders were inexorably closing in on them.
"Are you sure we can't go faster?" Sablik asked, worried about the increasingly smaller distance between them and the dragons.
"No, we can't!" Hirsz retorted. The indicator had been holding steady at 247 kilometers per hour for some time now and didn't want to budge. "This isn't an Eleven! The only way I could speed up is by diving, and that's not what you're asking for, right?"
"No, not at all," the observer agreed, remembering the clear ban on diving with this aircraft at speeds greater than 350 kilometers per hour. Without further reflection, he once again looked through the binoculars. They were becoming larger and more distinct, allowing him to see their appearance.
In general, they weren't particularly special, although to his surprise, they very much resembled the attire of the first aviators. Although they had a few differences, mainly in the cut of their clothing, their helmets were also somewhat out of place.
Specifically, they wore leather jackets lined with fur around their necks and arms. Their pants resembled cavalry trousers, similar to those worn by Polish cavalrymen from the 17th century in pictures and paintings. Their boots also looked like they were borrowed from cavalrymen but smaller and more fitted, clinging to their legs. Although it's possible they were just wrapped with something to keep them attached to their legs.
On their heads, they wore steel helmets, similar to hussar helmets or other 17th-century cavalry, but wrapped in some fabric. Probably to prevent them from gleaming from afar or to protect against the cold. Sablik had no idea. Especially since one of them stood out more.
His helmet bore something like a plume, in red and gold. His jacket was lined with fur from some animal, cat-like but unknown to Sablik. In addition to that, he wore various noticeable but not eye-catching ornaments. The same applied to his beast, which wore armor much better than the others, and where possible, its body was covered like a warhorse of Polish cavalry with unknown symbols.
In short, the commander.
Well, at least that's what Sablik thought, using his meager, to put it mildly, historical knowledge. He had heard that officers used to shine like the sun, so that soldiers in the chaos of battle would know where the commander was. Back then, it was an invaluable asset, as communication in battle was makeshift, so a simple announcement with decorations made it easier to understand what and how.
Today, in the era of ubiquitous snipers and sharpshooters, such an approach requires as much courage as ignorance. So much for theories. Sablik didn't know how true that was, well, he knew the latter for sure, after all, he had seen officers and non-commissioned officers of the army, and none of them stood out from their subordinates. Nevertheless, adopting this interpretation, that's what the officer lodged in his mind.
Apparently, they won't be able to escape; these beasts are fast enough to catch up with the RWS-14 Heron. However, if he uses his machine gun, the trusty Vickers F, to get rid of the commander, the formation should disperse in panic on its own. Why? Well, looking at what these riders had and comparing it to the photos he had taken, these guys didn't look like a highly advanced civilization.
In short, the machine gun itself should scare them enough to retreat. Suddenly shooting down their commander should only help them make that decision. Of course, the problem lay in one, or maybe even two, issues.
The first one was how close to lure the unknown squadron, and the second was whether to shoot first. Although with the latter, Sablik, seeing that they had no chance to escape, at least not so easily, didn't hesitate to make the difficult decision.
"Zdzich!"
"Yes?"
"What do you think? Should we take the risk or play it safe?" he asked in a very serious tone.
The pilot pondered, understanding what his friend meant. After all, he himself had previously proposed this solution, but now it needed to be put into action. Playing it safe, although as the name suggests, it's safe, it doesn't guarantee full success.
Shooting from a distance will cost, and Sablik doesn't have an excessive amount of ammunition. Four magazines with 97 rounds each. What's worse, Vickers guns tended to jam, and there are five targets.
Of course, if the observer expends all the ammo, it won't be a disaster, unlike the old Lublins. In the Czaplas, the pilot also had armament, one PWU wz.33 machine gun. Two belts with 500 rounds each. Unless it jams, which is rather unlikely.
Nevertheless, this won't be a safe move, and it will take time. After all, their goal is to escape the pursuers, not to engage in combat. Hirsz knew his place well; he was a companion aircraft pilot, not a fighter. His tasks included close reconnaissance, unless like today, it's quite distant, or providing communication. All for the needs of the ground forces.
The work might not be as spectacular, and it might be below the dignity of the Eagles from the Eleventh Squadron, but it's certainly necessary.
On the other hand, he knew his trade inside out. After all, he was a Polish pilot, and as the popular saying goes, a Polish pilot will fly even on barn doors! A risky move, luring the dragons close enough so that the chance of a miss is low, is entirely feasible, and the risk is acceptable.
Especially if executed well, even without a successful shootdown. It will slow down the enemy, forcing them into a sudden change of course or even a halt. He didn't know how resilient these beasts were, but he had serious doubts whether their masters would want to subject them to another murderous effort.
Even if they attempted a second try, it would likely end in failure.
"Let's take the risk," Hirsz finally replied. "Even if you don't hit anything, it should stop them for a moment and give us time to increase the distance."
"I understand," Sablik said, quickly grasping the pilot's logic. "Yes! They're animals, not machines!" he scolded himself mentally as he adjusted his rifle on its swivel mount towards the dragons.
He quickly inspected the weapon, then set the range to a hundred meters. On the ground, it would be quite a lot, but in the air, at such speeds, it's very tight. Then he disengaged the safety, knowing full well that he would have to justify this decision to higher-ups. However, he already had his explanation prepared: protect equipment and people.
That's what they drilled into the heads of all soldiers of the Armed Forces of the Republic of Poland. It's hardly surprising; Poland didn't have much of either. Well, there's no point in dwelling on thoughts. The decision has been made; now they just have to wait.
Hirsz glanced back at his colleague and somewhat superior officer, who was holding the Vickers with concentration. "Apparently, Oskar decided to start a war," he muttered jokingly under his breath. In reality, he doubted this scenario. Why?
Simple, it's an incident. Considering what happened, such incidents will occur if they haven't already. Their new neighbors would have to be overly sensitive to go to war over this. Right?
That's why he wasn't worried about what was about to happen. Just another shooting in the air, many of which had happened before, and there would be some fuss about it, but nothing excessive. Instead, he focused on another matter: the mountains looming in the distance ahead.
The terrain reconnaissance was conducted relatively deep, considering the normal conditions under which they should operate. Nonetheless, they adhered to one crucial rule.
They made sure to keep the Carpathian and Sudeten Mountains behind them. This was facilitated by the fact that today's weather was exceptionally beautiful and clear, allowing them to see farther than usual. When these landmarks disappeared or became too faintly visible, they turned back and headed in a different but still western direction.
Well, theoretically western, because the compass went haywire and showed directions in reverse. They could figure it out, but if they hadn't been warned in advance by air traffic control, they would probably have been misled by their own habits.
Doing calculations in his head, he concluded that they were at least 150 kilometers from the Tatras themselves. The border was a bit closer to their current position. If they slowed down the enemy without losing speed, they should lose them for good over the wild territories.
That's the theory; practice will show if it was too optimistic.
He looked to his right, and with the naked eye, he saw the enemy clearly enough to distinguish between the riders and their mounts. And he saw the commander; watching Sablik tensing as he aimed his rifle towards him, he already knew who would be his target.
"Right choice," Hirsz thought. "Kill or just shoot at the commander, and the formation should be broken long enough for them to give up the chase."
The following minutes were nervous anticipation of what was about to happen. Boring and actionless. The whole thing was prolonged by Hirsz's constant glances at the dragons. He had to stay vigilant; he didn't know how or with what they would attack, so he preferred to make sure that whatever they did, he would be the first to react.
"Five hundred. Four hundred. Three hundred. Two hundred fifty. Two hundred. One fifty," Hirsz counted the distance between them and the dragons in his head. When he counted "One hundred," he had a few seconds to closely observe the commander of the formation and his subordinates, who were flying straight towards them, perhaps diving.
He didn't know what they were doing, whether they intended to attack or perhaps get close enough to talk. He didn't care. He was waiting for the bass sound, the sound of the machine gun firing. When it roared, he acted instinctively. Seeing that the enemy didn't slow down despite the gunfire and feeling a primal fear of the sharp claws he had noticed, he threw the entire aircraft to the left and downwards.
The Czapla smoothly tilted in the desired direction, putting the pilot and his observer perpendicular to the ground. Amidst the ominous screech, the dawn, and the furious cries in an unfamiliar language, the enemy formation flew over them. Meanwhile, Sablik furiously hacked at the enemies.
He only stopped when Hirsz straightened the plane and began to ascend again. "I hit! Zdzichu, I hit!" he heard Sablik's cries of joy.
He looked to his left and saw a three-person dragon formation sharply slowing down during an attempted turn. It was evident that it was shattered; although they wanted to pursue, something else occupied their minds. Two of them were descending, one lifelessly and the other in a diving pursuit of the first.
"Indeed, you can now paint a dragon on the fuselage, Oskar Dragon Slayer! Provided, of course, you find the right decal!" Hirsz replied just as jovially.
"I'll find it, don't worry," came the response.
"Sure," Hirsz agreed, then became more serious. "Alright, let's get out of here. Those guys, whoever they are, got lost when you knocked down their commander. I don't know about you, but I'm not keen on dealing with them for the next hour and a half."
"Agreed," Sablik concurred, realizing the situation. Then, inspired, he pulled out his camera and snapped some final photos of the dragon rider formation and the falling duo. He didn't know how dangerous they were, especially for the ground forces, but he knew one thing for sure: Warsaw needed to know about them.
With that thought, they left the unknown riders alone in the sky. Meanwhile, those riders saw that their pursuit target had effortlessly escaped, so they decided to help their comrade. Yet, bitterness, despair, and fear lay at the bottom of their young hearts.
Flying on their green dragons, bearing a white and red checkerboard on their wings, they arrived in these lands. But where did they come from? Seeing unfamiliar mountains and the flight direction, they suspected their homeland was to the southwest. None of them had seen or heard of mountains so close to the coast, which filled their hearts with wonder.
Where did these mountains come from?
*Actually, in the Polish Army of the interwar period, each type of firearm and special unit had its own internal military ranks. Thus, alongside the official system, each weapon had its own designations. For the purposes of this story, the ranks are translated into the official system.
** In the official English nomenclature, Army Cooperation Squadron. This concept emerged in the minds of French army officers at the end of World War I, but it was actually Poland that implemented this idea seriously. And basically only Poland did. The main tasks were to cooperate with land forces units, infantry, cavalry, and artillery, and to perform observational, reconnaissance, communication, and, if necessary, close support tasks on the battlefield. In other countries, the tasks of these squadrons were divided into various, more specialized formations.
*** Refers to the PZL P.11. The standard Polish fighter of that period. Conventionally called the Eleven. In its time, the fastest fighter in the world.
**** In Polish (and not only Polish!) aircraft of that era, the throttle was pulled instead of pushed forward, as in British and similar designs. During the Battle of Britain, this caused a series of problems for Polish pilots.