The Warsaw suburb of Czerniakow stretches for over a kilometre along the western bank of the Vistula below the main road and railway bridges. Normally sleepy and seemingly distant from the bustle which characterizes big cities, in September 1944 Czerniakow was burning. Smoke from burning buildings and from artillery explosions shrouded the autumnal sky. Small boats from the eastern suburb of Praga, recently seized by the Soviet army, were still making their way hesitantly toward burning Czerniakow , hoping to bring help to the dying anti-Nazi uprising.

         In the boats soldiers in long khaki overcoats were from eastern Poland , recently conscripted peasants who had rarely - if ever - seen a big city and now were staring at ruins which would soon become the graves of many of them. Their "people's army," under Soviet command, had come too late, and without adequate means to be of effective succour to the Poles fighting since the 1st of August, while the capital crumbled around them. Besides, for political reasons of which they were not aware at the time, the Soviet Union defiantly procrastinated with the rescue operation, thus condemning Warsaw and its anti-communist Polish fighters to death-and also helping the Nazis.

         September 19, 1944. Several images of the last days of the struggle for control of the bridgehead: an anti-tank gun abandoned by its crew near the shore; long machinegun volleys from the German positions sweeping the grey surface of the river; near the shack that had once served as a garage, the body of Romek, the latest victim of my tattered squad, unburied; in the cellar of a half-ruined building , Polish Home Army lieutenant colonel Radoslaw, commander of the diminishing sector, shouted into the telephone "and how am I going to feed my 200 men?" That was all remaining in action from the three thousand young men and women whom Radoslaw had led through one doomed sector of Warsaw to another. Except that the initial élan and patriotic euphoria had given way to robot-like efforts to survive - with diminishing hope.

         In the falling dusk we managed to repel a German attack on Radoslaw's headquarters. I fired my Soviet rifle a number of times and threw one hand grenade. There were three wounded prisoners in Luftwaffe uniforms (also worn by the anti-aircraft artillery). We gave them water from a field flask and together we cursed Hitler.

         It was close to midnight when one of the officers announced that we were to withdraw through the sewers, to Mokotow, a residential suburb in the southern part of Warsaw which was still in the hands of the insurgents. There was no sign that the Russians on the other side of the river were either prepared to evacuate us across or to increase pressure on the Germans in order to hold the crucial bridgehead.


         During those last hours of the battle for the bridgehead, massacred units were amalgamated, their leaders were dead or wounded, and different officers were constantly taking over. The remaining few boys from the squad of ten at the start of September, were our leader, 17-year old "Mietek" (Tadeusz Stopczynski) who inducted me to the conspiratorial "Battle Schools" six months before the uprising: "Wacek" (Waclaw Tarlowski) with whom I participated in a number of assignments including carrying messages through the sewers; and 15-year-old "Lidka," (Lidia Markiewicz) an intrepid para-medic who took part in some of the uprising's bloodiest battles . As we prepared to move toward the sewer entrance, I noticed that Lidka was not in our group. In fact, as it transpired, at that moment she was on the half-submerged river ferry "Bajka" hoping to cross to the other side.

         The manhole was close to the river and we formed a reasonably orderly line outside it. Somehow, the artillery fire subsided. When I reached the gaping hole of the sewer and peered inside, I saw our colonel ankle-deep in the smelly mud, holding up a lantern and shouting "Get back! Next convoy at 1 a.m." I withdrew and the others followed me. About an hour later, spent in a damaged building filled with wounded and healthy insurgents, someone shouted "advance to the sewer." Unexpectedly, shortly after we emerged into the humid, smoke permeated, night, artillery shells began to explode ahead and behind us. The intensity of fire was unusual for the middle of the night because the Germans preferred to fight in daytime, apparently to give their troops rest.

         This time there was no question of an orderly approach to the sewer entrance ,with , what had become a virtually unruly crowd clawing its way to the hole which loomed almost as the gate to paradise. I don't remember how I managed to reach it and then climb down on an iron ladder with my unwieldy rifle and a sack full of ammunition and grenades. (The rucksack with my meagre personal belongings was left in one of the ruined buildings.)

         We found ourselves in what was known as a "storm sewer" - a large sewer intended to gather the overflow of water after rain. Parts of it were lined with boards to facilitate walking and, here and there ,were electric lights - although by then most of Warsaw's power supply was paralysed. Girls posted at intersections with other sewers warned us of areas where the Germans had raised the water level by dropping sandbags. This filthy "water" never reached my thighs.

         After the slow, five-hour advance through Warsaw's underground labyrinth we emerged into the bucolic, sun-lit suburban atmosphere of Mokotow. An insurgent in grey overalls and armed only with a pistol, smiled. Girls with clean hair distributed cups of warm liquid - tea or soup, it didn't matter. The distant rattle of a machine gun seemed almost irrelevant. We sat on piles of logs, virtually dazed. A post-war author described us as "so exhausted that for the time being they were incapable of combat duty." In the evening of that untroubled day, lieutenant colonel Karol reported to the AK command in the city centre the "withdrawal, through the sewers to me, of Radoslaw with some 200 men, half of them wounded. I recommended that he should organize them into two companies."

         A group of about 30 of us was given a billet in an empty two-story apartment building near a park. Shortly after our arrival, our medic Lidka turned up smiling, with Mietek, twice -wounded leader of our squad massacred in Czerniakow . They had left Czerniakow in another "sewer convoy." We spent a quiet afternoon and night in what seemed an unreal world.

         Until then, Mokotow was comparatively untouched by the fighting which had devastated other parts of Warsaw. Home Army (AK) members there wore grey overalls from a captured Luftwaffe depot while most of my unit had German camouflage jackets from another military store. Food was becoming scarce but we soon discovered nearby "allotments" which the local population avoided, claiming they were "under enemy fire." Ignoring such warnings, we raided them, securing potatoes, cucumbers and tomatoes. We cleaned our weapons (unlike many AK units our group was completely armed, including two light machine guns) quarrelled with civilians about the priority at water wells (regular water supply stopped several days before) and I nursed a sore throat, residue of tonsillitis a month before the uprising. A doctor's prescription proved useless - medicines were lacking and only paper bandages were available.

         On the 24th September (my 16th birthday), the precarious peace of Mokotow came to an abrupt end. Artillery shells exploded practically everywhere, Stuka dive bombers dominated the sky, the local population rushed to the cellars. Groups of Mokotow defenders in their grey overalls raced in the direction of reported enemy breakthroughs. It looked like a decisive attack, in keeping with the enemy's strategy of seizing one sector of the city after another rather than all at the same time. Thus it was clear that Mokotow's turn had come after that of Czerniakow.


         We were soon near the sensitive "front line," in a massive school building (Woronicza street) used as German barracks during the occupation. While waiting for orders, a "goliath" rammed the building, causing deaths and serious damage. (Goliaths were small tanks loaded with explosives directed by cable from "mother tanks.") A brick from the ceiling fell straight on my head, fortunately protected by a German helmet. I remember helping carry a stretcher with a moaning wounded who had lost a leg.

         At dusk, in the macabre atmosphere of yet another cellar, we were addressed by "lieutenant Maly," one of the most respected officers, who spoke of the need for "a last effort" to regain the lost position which apparently represented the key to Mokotow's defense. We received vodka (which I, as a scout, did not drink) and pieces of bacon before deploying in open terrain beyond the line of suburban houses. I found myself in a large bomb crater with Maly, Lidka and one or two others, when a flare knifed across the sky. Cupping his hands, Maly shouted "attack" and almost immediately we heard the "hurrahs" of the first line and grenade explosions. Minutes later, as we advanced, a forest of German flares illuminated the battlefield while heavy machinegun fire swept the area, paralyzing all movement. Yet some boys continued to move forward while the wounded crawled toward the rear. Once more we became aware of the weakness of poorly armed insurgents against a powerful enemy in open terrain. Gradually, the attack ceased, leaving its objective in enemy hands.

         Soon a dense fog shrouded the area. I remember manning a machinegun with two others in the doorway of an apartment building and hearing shouts in German and Polish "don't shoot" while the two sides picked up their wounded and dead. We then moved toward the north of the embattled suburb, taking position outside a factory filled with dust-covered machinery (on Wiktorska street) - just as the Germans approached, firing and throwing hand-grenades. I stared with disbelief at the blood on my right hand and felt blood trickling into one of my boots. My first thoughts were "they finally got me" and surprise that it didn't hurt much. But within minutes the courtyard outside the factory was showered by mortar shells and I felt strong, almost unbearable, pain under my right knee, forcing me to virtually roll on the ground. Lidka rushed to me and as she tried to pull off my right boot, another shell burst nearby. I saw Lidka's face covered with blood and watched as she fell backwards.

         A para-medic from another unit bandaged our wounds and both of us declined to go to a "hospital," usually a very primitive installation in a cellar. Instead we were shown the new billet of our unit (to which I managed to limp) and we lay down on the only bed available. I had a fever and felt like hell and watched when Lidka, from time to time, lifted the corner of the bandage on her face and studied her wound in a pocket mirror.

         The following day we learned of another sewer retreat, this time to the city centre - one of the last bastions of the dying Polish capital. I reached the manhole (Szustra street) limping and leaning on two young girls, watching a growing crowd, including secretaries with files and portable typewriters as well as civilians with suitcases. I realized that my leg wound would make any sewer trip impossible and asked a lieutenant for permission to remain in Mokotow, regardless of the situation. I watched the remnants of my unit disappear one by one into the sewer, warning me "the Germans will get you." It was almost night when I saw a red cross flag on one building which turned out to be "a hospital." It was filled with bandaged young men waiting their turn to go into the sewer. Nurses stripped me of all my German equipment, including boots and camouflage jacket as well as my Home Army identity card.

         In the morning, after incessant all-night shelling, we learned that "Major Zryw," Mokotow's last commander, had surrendered ,having obtained a guarantee from a German general (Rohr) to treat the prisoners on the basis of the Geneva convention - not as "bandits."

         We were the first significant group of resistance fighters in occupied Europe to be granted such a concessions by the Nazis.