It’s a foggy night of August 6th, 1915
and in the trenches near Osowiec fortress
the Russian Empire is facing off against the Germans
in what is now modern day Poland.
Lieutenant Kotlinsky’s boots sink in the mud
as he patrols the trenches of his company.
He’s the 13th Company Commander
assigned to the Osowiec fortress,
a stronghold protecting a choke point in the border.
Tired men line the trench, many ill with trench foot and lice.
Artillery fire rains down on the fortress behind them,
the thunder of explosions keeping the exhausted soldiers awake.
In the distance their enemies prepare for the battle.
They are about to unleash a hideous and terrible weapon.
A new way to cut down the defenders en masse.
On the signal German soldiers release
a huge cloud of chlorine gas.
There’s a tailwind
and the gas starts to roll towards the unsuspecting defenders.
Drifting, clawing at the air.
It’s a wall of death that silently sucks the life
of any unfortunate man or beast
that is enveloped by it’s green, clinging embrace.
As silent as the grave
it forms pools of smog as it pours over and into ditches and craters.
In the Russian held trenches, a sentry shouts “Gas!”
The men stand up and look over the parapet.
On the other side they see the nightmares of every soldier,
a massive wall of dark green fog
looming ever closer.
The soldiers panic,
they have no gas masks.
The soldiers desperately rush to fabricate makeshift masks.
They take bandages and rags,
urinate them and put them over their nose and mouths,
some just can’t and use water instead,
and others are left desperately trying to get the materials they need
as the cloud of death approaches ever closer.
Kotlinsky’s chest feels tight and the air around him starts to burn.
He holds his mask tight to his face and closes his eyes.
The gas rolls over the trench and the pain skyrockets.
Men cry and scream around him, their lungs and skin burning away.
He can do nothing but hold his mask tight
and hope as the screams of his comrades fall quiet
one by one.
He collapses, his strength slowly and painfully withering away.
A German soldier advances through the fog,
surrounded by his countrymen.
Once a kill zone,
now they approach eerily unopposed.
A complete and utter silence has fallen upon the battlefield,
only broken by the sounds of their own boots stepping on the mud.
His chest hurts, gas still lingers in the air.
Trench lines and fortifications
face down his unit through the fog, like hunting specters,
but nothing ever fires from them.
His fellow soldiers cut a path through the rat’s nest of barbed wire and the unit keeps moving.
They reach the first trench and see the devastation.
Bodies of men, covering their mouths,
huddling in corners,
some fallen outside the trenches as they tried to flee,
it is complete devastation.
His unit finds a Russian soldier,
sunken in the trench,
barely clinging on to life.
The German soldier looks away as he cannot bear to watch
as a fellow soldier puts the Russian out of his misery,
his blade probably bringing more mercy than doom upon the poor soul.
Now tentatively and on edge,
the unit resumes the advance.
They cross over the second line of trenches,
still no resistance but more death.
Then, as they approach the reserve trench,
they see some movement through the fog.
The Germans stop.
Ghosts stalk them,
more figures in the fog,
and the sounds of steps reach their ears.
Suddenly a figure appears from the fog walking towards them.
Emerging from the mist is a Russian.
At least that’s what they think it is.
It’s difficult to tell…
The German soldier’s blood runs cold.
That isn’t alive.
That man is dead.
Then more figures appear from the fog.
And more. And more...
It’s a horde of twisted broken bodies.
The dead are walking.
The terrified German drops his rifle and runs for his life.
Kotlinsky leads the charge, with all the strength he has left
he falls upon the first German he sees;
his comrades quickly join
and together they take the fight to the enemy with their bayonets.
The two lines clash in a chaotic and brutal melee
and bullets fly through it all.
There is no order, no plan,
only the most pure, deep hatred fueling the soldiers.
The shocked Germans fall into disarray,
many flee the scene,
the remaining fight for their lives.
Both sides lose men as the battle goes on.
But the terrifying visage and unwavering resolve of the “dead men”
proves overwhelming.
The German’s fall back under heavy resistance,
men from other companies join into the brawl
and artillery rains down on the rear of the German position.
Kotlinsky charges the first captured trench,
bayonet in hand,
but he is struck by a bullet on his side.
He collapses on the muddy terrain as the rest of his men
pass by him, charging ahead.
The Germans within are quickly dispatched
and a soldier drags Kotslinsky into safety.
He is heavily wounded and unable to fight.
Bleeding profusely, he sees Lieutenant Strzemiński,
a brave Polish sapper from one of the companies.
Kotlinsky calls for him and cedes his command to the soldier.
Strzeminski solemnly takes the position,
salutes his commander, and leaves to continue the attack.
Strzeminski rejoins his comrades
as the charge turns from a fight to the last man
to a successful counterattack.
The Germans are fleeing, and the Russian soldiers rapidly retake the defensive lines.
In the trenches they find hundreds of their fallen comrades.
This invigorates the Dead men,
their fury and hatred demanding revenge.
Strzeminski leads the charge to the last trench
under control of the Germans,
they breach it and mercilessly dispatch the enemy.
With the retaking of the last trench line,
the counterattack comes to an end.
Every enemy either dead or having fled back into the fog
from which they came…
Strzeminski said, “I cannot describe the bitterness
and fury with which our soldiers marched against the German poisoners.
Strong rifle...
The attack of the dead men while a valiant revenge against a terrible weapon would ultimately be in vain.
The Russians were forced to abandon the fortress under threat of encirclement just two weeks later.
Lt. Vladimir Kotlinsky died from his injuries the evening of the attack.
Under his command he had rallied the remains of his and another unit
and led them to charge at the right moment and time.
He was posthumously awarded the Order of St. George
4th grade for his valiant actions that fateful day.
He was just 21 years old.
Lt. Władysław Strzemiński
was awarded the Sword of St. George for his bravery during the attack.
He continued to serve
and would suffer many injuries throughout the war,
but he survived and went on
to become an influential artist in Poland, his homeland.
He died peacefully on December 28th, 1952.
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