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often as possible much to the disgust of her father.
    The daughter, Magdalena, was a tall, dark haired beauty, with high cheekbones and slightly pinched face, typical of Polish women in that area.
    One morning, the furious Miller, berating him and waving his arms about with gestures of indignation, approached Paul. Paul, after calling over one of the Battalion clerks, who spoke Polish, to translate for him, was informed that the ‘blond beast’ was bedding his daughter and that he expected Paul to stop it immediately.
    He partially placated the angry father by telling him that although it was not his responsibility to manage the love affairs of his daughter, he would investigate the matter. This did not please him entirely but he left with the knowledge that Paul had promised to look into the matter further.
    “Max,” called Paul next time he saw the big blond, ex-Hamburg docker.
    “I believe you have a sudden passion for freshly baked bread?” he said, grinning.
    “I don’t know what you’re on about Sir,” replied the disgruntled Unterfeldwebel. “I’m just making sure the men get their rations of fresh bread, we don’t know when we will have the opportunity again.”
    “Are you sure it is not your rations that get priority Max,” continued Paul, baiting him. “Make sure you don’t put any buns in the oven.”
    At this point Max, red faced, realised that his platoon Leutnant was making fun of him and a grin slowly spread across his face.
    “I will make sure that the oven door is kept firmly shut Sir.”
    “See you do Max,” replied Paul patting him on his solid shoulder, “we don’t want any broken hearts and trouble with the natives, do we?”
    Magdalena had clearly developed a deep attachment for her ‘olbrzym blondyn’, ‘giant blonde’ man, and was distraught when the unit pulled out later and she was no longer going to see the love of her life.

    Later, Paul could be found lying on his bed, still weary after the recent battle in the Wola-Gulowska woods. The entire Battalion was now accommodated in and around the small rural village situated about ten kilometres from Pulawy.
    The first company’s officers, Paul, Erich and Helmut, had been given some well-earned days leave. They spent some of that time relaxing by visiting the seventeenth century town of Pulawy. As had the rest of the Battalion’s officers at some point during the last few days.
    Situated on the Wisla and Kuraowka rivers, the town had a population of over twenty thousand souls. During the mid eighteen hundreds, it had been known as Nowa Aleksandria, the name changing a few years after the failure of the eighteen thirty-one uprising.
    Close by, was a charming medieval village with a small market square where they stopped for a Polish beer on the way to Pulawy.
    The weather was still warm and pleasant, but not as dry and dusty as it had been these past few weeks. The three comrades talked about how surreal it was. One day they were fighting and killing the enemy then, a few days later, they were drinking beer in one of their village squares.
    Surrounding the small square, there were a number of ancient houses, shops and churches, and even a synagogue. Paul, and his fellow officers, found it quite relaxing after the pressures of battle. Even the local Polish population was being polite, although perhaps for the wrong reasons.
    Little did they know that later, in what was to turn into a world war, three German concentration camps would be built and operated around the town of Pulawy. The town’s Jewish population of over three thousand, initially confined to a ghetto, would later be murdered at Sobibor camp.
    Paul also learnt that in the nineteen twenties, Pulawy was the scene of a huge battle between the Polish Army and the Soviet Red Army, when a Polish force, directed from Pulawy, circled and defeated a strong force of some 170,000 men. This drove the Soviets from Poland giving them twenty years of stability until, reflected