Peter marched his unit down Filtrowa Street in single file, the German standard-issue rifle he’d acquired from a corpse hanging heavily around his neck. According to the instructions they were to carry their weapons without ammunition.
More battalions joined them. As far as the eye could see, a trek of dirty, dejected and depleted men walked towards an unsure future. Most wore whatever ill-fitting civilian clothes they’d obtained, after shedding the coveted panterka battle dress. Nobody dared to face the German victors in a stolen SS uniform.
panterkaPeter’s heart squeezed for all the courageous men shuffling down the broad street. Fifteen thousand, more or less. Every last Home Army soldier who hadn’t preferred to seek his luck with the civilians was on the move, adrift on a sea of dirt
