stretched across the street with his boot. The barricade was a higgledy-piggledy structure that had been erected in a madcap couple of hours from a mishmash of paving slabs, doors, old bits of furniture, wrought-iron fencing, barrels and several trees that had been chopped down and dragged in from some neighbouring gardens. ‘Solid enough,’ he decided, ‘but whether it’ll be strong enough to stop an armoured steamer is another matter.’
‘It better be,’ observed Trixie. ‘This street leads directly to the Blood Bank, so this is where the main SS assault will come. Apparently the Captain’ – now it was her turn to nod in the direction of Captain Gorski, who was sitting on top of the barricade gnawing at a fingernail – ‘has been ordered to hold this street to the last man.’
‘The Spirits help us then. I don’t think Gorski could hold his dick with both hands, never mind a barricade with only two hundred fighters. And without good leadership, once it gets hot this lot are going to cut and run.’
‘They’ve got you.’
‘Yeah, they have, haven’t they?’ Wysochi lit a cigarette, took a deep suck of smoke and gave Trixie a smile. ‘And they’ve got you too, and from that look in your eye, non-combatant or not, I think you’re intent on doing more than just offering words of encouragement.’
They were interrupted by a shout from a lookout stationed on one of the rooftops along the street.
‘Balloon!’
Trixie looked up to where the sentry was pointing. There, hovering a quarter of a mile away and perhaps two hundred feet in the air was one of the ForthRight’s new Speke-class hydrogen balloons, its huge red canopy bright in the afternoon sunshine. It seemed so peaceful, so harmless floating there. She could see two men in the wicker basket studying the barricade through a telescope, the lens glinting in the sun.
Wysochi tossed his cigarette aside. ‘C’mon, the balloon’s gone up. Time to make ourselves scarce.’ He cupped his hands to his mouth. ‘Take cover,’ he bellowed to the WFA soldiers standing around their braziers trying to keep warm, then he grabbed Trixie’s arm and hauled her towards one of the cellars that had been commandeered into service as bunkers.
‘Ignore that,’ yelled Captain Gorski. ‘It’s only a balloon.’
‘They’re spotting for the artillery,’ shouted Wysochi over his shoulder as he hurled Trixie down the steps to the cellar.
The discussion was cut short by a strange whistling sound that cut through the air.
Trixie had read descriptions of artillery barrages in the books in her father’s library but she was still stunned – literally – by the reality of being at the receiving end of one of them. The explosions of the shells were deafeningly loud, so loud that she felt her one good ear go pop: it was as though she had been smashed about the head by two cymbals. But the noise was as nothing to the shock wave which tore out from the blast. Even shielded underground she was hurled against the wall, her head smashing against the brickwork. A shearing pain lanced through her damaged shoulder and for a moment she lay foetuslike on the ground, deaf, numb, and shocked by the ferocity of what she’d experienced. Dust and grime thrown up from the blast began to swirl around her: now every time she took in a breath it was flavoured with the taste of brick dust. She coughed, trying to spit the choking powder out of her mouth.
She felt a hand on her shoulder, and turning her head she saw a concerned Wysochi looking down at her. He was covered in a patina of white dust, looking as though he had been dipped in flour ready to be baked in an oven. His uniform had also suffered in the blast; the right sleeve of his jacket was torn and the knees of his trousers were tattered and stiff with mud. He spoke to Trixie, but she couldn’t hear a thing. She stabbed a finger into each ear and massaged them.
Wysochi nodded and raised his voice. ‘Are you hurt?’
Trixie staggered to her feet and took a quick inventory. She had a catalogue of bumps and bruises but nothing seemed to be broken. She mouthed an uncertain ‘I’m fine,’ and was pleased when she heard her own muffled voice.
‘Good, then come with me.’ Wysochi turned and climbed the basement stairs back up to the road level.
The scene that greeted Trixie was one of horror and carnage. About ten of the men and women who had been putting the finishing touches to the barricade had been caught in the open when the salvo of artillery shells had struck and now they lay bent and busted on the torn cobbles. Captain Gorski was lying amongst them: from the odd tilt of his head it was obvious that his neck was snapped.
Trixie looked around: there seemed to be no officers and no NCOs, just a muddle of winded, bemused and very frightened soldiers. Then, out of nowhere there was another explosion, and Trixie and Wysochi were pelted with debris. When Trixie stood up, she found the Sergeant lying still and unmoving at her feet, hit by a flying brick.
She gawped down at Wysochi. It seemed impossible that such a powerful man could be felled. He was a rock. He was indestructible. Panic washed over her. She looked around, frightened, uncertain what to do… alone.
‘Steamers… SS steamers…’ someone shouted, the quaver in his voice indicating that he was near to panic.
Trixie’s naturally combative spirit reasserted itself. ‘Corporal! Is there a corporal still alive here?’ she screamed at the top of her voice and almost immediately a boy emerged from behind a low wall that surrounded the front garden of what had once been a very elegant house. It was elegant no longer, having taken a direct hit. ‘What’s your name, Corporal?’
‘Karol Michalski.’
‘Get ten men, Corporal Michalski, and as many firebombs as you can carry and station yourself at the top of that house there.’ She stabbed a finger towards a tall building standing a hundred yards or so in front of the barricade. ‘Wait until the steamers arrive, then burn them.’
The Corporal hesitated for a moment, then saluted and without another word did as he was ordered. Trixie looked around and saw a soldier staggering around brushing flames out from his trousers. ‘You, soldier, round up twenty men and station them on the upper floors of that building.’ She pointed with her revolver to the house that flanked the barricade.
The young soldier shook his head. ‘No. We’ve got to retreat out of artillery range…’
‘Pull yourself together, man. What’s your name?’
‘Josef Zawadzski.’
‘If we run, Zawadzski, the SS will kill us like rats in a barrel. There’s nowhere to retreat to. We must stand or we must die.’ Other men were slowly emerging from their hiding places and Trixie raised her voice so they could hear her. ‘Yesterday you swore an oath to defend your city to the last man. Today we will find out whether Poles are men of their word or men of straw.’ Flushed with embarrassment, Zawadzski saluted and then began rounding up his men.
A sergeant, still bemused and baffled by the barrage, stumbled out from a cellar and made an attempt to exert his authority. ‘No, stay where you are. I command here. You’re not a real officer. I say we retreat.’
It was a pivotal moment. The men who had been scurrying off to do Trixie’s bidding hesitated. They looked uncertainly from Trixie to the sergeant and back again.
She tried to bluff. ‘I am Lieutenant Trixie Dashwood.’
‘We ain’t got no women officers in the WFA. I’m in charge here and I say…’
They never got to hear what the sergeant was intent on saying. The pistol in Trixie’s hand barked and the sergeant dropped to the ground with a bullet hole in his chest. For a second Trixie stood paralysed by her own ruthlessness. But then she threw off any doubts; she would ponder the morality of her action later… if she lived. ‘He was an Enemy of the Revolution. I command here,’ she snarled. ‘I am Lieutenant Trixie Dashwood, and my orders are to hold this barricade and hold it I shall. You – Corporal Zawadzski – get those twenty men into that building and when the Anglos come, fire down on them. Understand?’
A nod from Zawadzski.
‘The rest of you, get your rifles and your ammunition and man the barricade.’
‘What about us?’ said a voice to Trixie’s left.
Trixie turned to find herself looking at a group of young girls, the eldest of whom couldn’t have been more than fourteen. Surely they were too young to be away from their parents? Trixie nearly laughed, she was only three years older than them and she’d just shot a man for disobeying her. ‘Carry the wounded to the basement. Look after them as best you can. The rest of you grab rifles and help defend the barricade.’
‘Women can’t fight,’ protested one of the soldiers.
