Cauldron

CHAPTER 28 Bridgehead

Signs of war littered Poland’s roads and fields. Two burned-out T-72s stood off to one side of Highway 5. They had been destroyed while trying to delay the advancing EurCon army. Blackened grass and melted steel and rubber surrounded the wrecks, and the faint, sickening stench of smoke, burned diesel, and burned flesh lingered in the air — a disturbing contrast to the ordinary Polish countryside smells of sunbaked earth, horses, and cattle.

Lieutenant Colonel Willi von Seelow waited by the other side of the road, watching the long column of his brigade’s Marder APCs and Leopard 2 tanks grind past on their way north. Thousands of fighting vehicles and guns were on the move, their passage marked by drifting clouds of dust. After five days spent in reserve, resting and absorbing replacements, the EurCon II Corps was going into battle again — led as usual by the 7th Panzer Division.

Clumps of silent, morose-looking infantrymen rode atop the Marders. Most had scarves pulled up over their mouths and noses to ward off the thick, gritty dust churned up by speeding tracks. Oil and diesel fumes and the scorching heat trapped by their armor made staying inside the APCs’ crowded troop compartments unbearable.

Some of the soldiers crowded atop the APCs were familiar faces. Far too many were men he didn’t know. Although some of the brigade’s losses had been made good by lightly wounded troops returning to duty, most of their replacements were Territorial Army soldiers hastily drafted into regular service.

The rough equivalent of the U.S. National Guard, Germany’s territorial forces were supposed to be used for home defense, not aggressive war, but unexpectedly heavy casualties had forced a change in official policy. Nobody was happy about that. Not the commanders who were being asked to make do with troops who were older, less physically fit, and less prepared for combat. Certainly not the Territorials themselves. Most were businessmen, shopkeepers, and factory workers who had only signed up to defend their own homes against a Soviet invasion. Angry at being ordered into battle on foreign soil, many had refused to report for duty. Others had come prepared with convenient medical reports that excused them from active service. All told, barely half of those called up had joined the German divisions fighting inside Poland.

Willi watched the glum, depressed faces sliding by and sighed. Though on paper his brigade was back to almost full strength, it was still a far cry from the polished, powerful combat formation that had crossed the Neisse twenty-two days before.

A Marder turned out of the column and pulled up beside von Seelow’s own command vehicle. Numbers and letters chalked on the APC’s armored flanks identified it as belonging to Lieutenant Colonel Klaus von Olden, the 192nd Panzergrenadier Battalion’s commanding officer. He noted with some amusement that the brightly painted heraldic crest that had once served the same function was gone. Apparently common sense and a fine nose for battlefield survival had overridden the man’s pride in his noble Prussian ancestors. Von Olden, a middling-tall, grim-faced officer, climbed out of the APC and dropped lightly onto the grass.

Willi strode forward to meet him, trying hard to keep a neutral expression on his face. Arrogant, obnoxious, and ambitious, the 192nd’s CO had been a thorn in his side ever since he’d joined the brigade. Von Olden despised “ossies,” East Germans, like von Seelow — especially ossies who were ahead of him on the promotion ladder. But, like it or not, Willi knew, he had to work with this man.

If anything, his jump to brigade commander had intensified their mutual dislike. Von Olden made no secret of the fact that he considered himself far more competent and deserving than “a jumped-up East German refugee.” Willi suspected that several members of the 7th Panzer and II Corps staffs harbored the same sentiments.

Willi shrugged inwardly. He’d assumed command under the most difficult circumstances imaginable and performed well. At least this war had forced the army’s internal politics to one side in favor of basic competence.

Von Olden stood in front of him with his hands on his hips and his chin jutting out. “You wanted to see me?”

Everything about the battalion commander, from his sarcastic tone and sour expression to the rakish tilt of his dark green beret, seemed designed to show contempt.

Von Seelow waited coldly, saying nothing. Insolence and insubordination were both grounds for disciplinary charges — even against senior officers. If the 192nd’s troublesome CO wanted to push matters that far, he would be happy to oblige him.

Gradually the man’s self-assurance wilted in the face of his continued silence. Still scowling, von Olden straightened to a semblance of attention and asked again, “You wanted to see me, sir?” The last word slipped out through clenched teeth.

Von Seelow nodded calmly. “We’ve been given a new objective, and I’m assigning it to you and your troops.”

He turned on his heel and strode briskly toward the M577 command vehicle where Major Thiessen was waiting to brief them. Von Olden didn’t have any choice but to tag along behind.

Surprised by the Polish counterattack that had checked II Corps south of Poznan, the EurCon high command had been forced to send its jealously guarded reserves into action. For two days, the V Corps’ two fresh panzer divisions had ground forward against the battered Poles — locked in a bloody slugging match to clear the city’s eastern and western approaches. At last, faced with flanking maneuvers that threatened to isolate Poznan entirely, the Poles evacuated and resumed their delaying fight — trading space for time while waiting for reinforcements from the east and from the Combined Forces.

Two of the six Polish divisions on line withdrew toward Warsaw, screening the roads to the Polish capital in case the French and Germans turned that way. The rest were falling back on Gdansk. Every kilometer they retreated brought them closer to better defensive terrain and to the port facilities where the American and British troops already at sea would have to land.

EurCon’s invasion armies had turned north in pursuit. Now they had a new strategic objective, their third in a little over three weeks: Seize Gdansk and shut off the flow of enemy reinforcements and war supplies. Then, with the Poles isolated and reeling, Paris and Berlin could make new peace overtures from a strong battlefield position.

Von Seelow studied the map thoughtfully. Gdansk should have been their objective right from the start. The first Franco-German attacks toward Wroclaw and Poznan had gained ground and nothing else. Taking the Polish port city offered real hope that this idiotic war could be won — or at least brought to a close on honorable terms.

Unfortunately, capturing Gdansk before the Americans could land their heavy armor and mechanized units would take some doing. During the three days of nonstop pursuit since Poznan fell, EurCon’s forces had advanced more than eighty kilometers. Now they were closing in on the sprawling industrial city of Bydgoszcz. But the port was still another 150 kilometers beyond that, and Bydgoszcz itself could prove a tough nut to crack.

Anyone trying to advance through or around the city first had to cross the Notec River and then penetrate a fairly thick band of forest. Swinging wide to the west would be difficult at best, impossible at worst. The Pomeranian Lakelands began there — a vast marshland of more than a thousand lakes and tree-lined, winding waterways. Moving east was also impractical. The broad Vistula River looped north there, blocking easy flanking moves.

Willi frowned. Terrain and the road net were both combining to funnel EurCon’s advancing army into a frontal attack against Bydgoszcz. If their enemies were looking for a good place to turn and fight, this was it.

The Notec River, though not as wide as the Vistula, was still a formidable tactical barrier. Given enough time, the Poles could dig in solidly behind the river line — barring the main road to Gdansk.

II Corps headquarters wanted the 19th Panzergrenadier Brigade to seize a bridgehead across the Notec, and soon. But where?

Major Thiessen answered his question by leaning across the map and pointing to a village several kilometers up the road from their present position. “There, Herr Oberstleutnant. The highway bridge at Rynarzewo.”

Willi nodded, feeling cold inside. II Corps wanted them to attack straight up the middle. If the Poles were still retreating, they’d only blow the bridge right in his face. If they were deploying to hold the river line in strength, the 192nd’s assault could easily run headfirst into a ready-made killing ground.

From the troubled look on Klaus von Olden’s face he had come to the same conclusion. The corners of his thin-lipped mouth turned down. “What kind of support can I count on, Major?”

Thiessen looked apologetic. “Very little, I’m afraid, Herr Oberstleutnant.”

Von Olden stabbed a finger down on the woods shown just north of the bridge. It offered perfect concealment for any Polish tanks and infantry lurking in ambush. “What about an air strike here? Using napalm or cluster munitions, if possible.”

The major shook his head. “No air support is available, sir.”

Not particularly surprising, Willi thought numbly. The focus of the air war had shifted west, into France and Germany. The small numbers of exhausted fighter and fighter-bomber squadrons left to both sides were being used solely for air defense or for raids on vital installations. Neither side could claim any measure of air superiority over the battlefield.

Von Olden rocked back on his heels. “And my artillery support? What guns will I have on call?”

“Our brigade guns and mortars only, Herr Oberstleutnant. Apparently all corps and divisional artillery is being committed to other operations,” Thiessen replied.

Willi’s suspicions hardened into near certainty. General Montagne, the II Corps commander, had something else up his sleeve. Nobody could seriously expect a single brigade to capture the bridge at Rynarzewo without more support. Clearly he and his men were being asked to fight and die as part of a feint. While the Poles concentrated their forces to butcher the 19th Panzergrenadier, Montagne must be hoping that other units would be able to cross the river elsewhere against lighter opposition.

Anger gripped him. It was bad enough to be sacrificed so callously. The French general’s apparent willingness to keep them in the dark was worse. Did Montagne think his German troops wouldn’t fight hard enough if they knew the truth?

For an instant von Seelow considered refusing the attack order. Then reality flooded back in. In the abstract, his defiance would be a fine thing. In practical terms, it would achieve nothing. Montagne and General Leibnitz would only replace him with von Olden or someone similar.

He peered down at the map, aware that both Thiessen and von Olden were watching him carefully, waiting for their instructions. For a moment, his mind stayed obstinately blank. Then, suddenly, the beginnings of an idea tugged at his consciousness. If you couldn’t bypass a strong enemy position or spend the time needed to pulverize it with superior firepower, there was just one real option left. Speed was life, the fighter pilots said. Well, the same often applied to land warfare. Rapid maneuver was the key to seizing the initiative and disrupting enemy plans. It also lay at the heart of German tactical doctrine.

Willi looked up at the 192nd’s commander. “When can you attack, Colonel?”

“An hour? Perhaps two?” Von Olden shrugged. “Once we’ve closed up on the river, I’ll need time to deploy my companies, scout the ground, and brief my officers. I’ll want tank support from the 194th, too.”

“No.” Von Seelow shook his head. He nodded toward the northern horizon. “The more time we use up now, the more time we give those Poles to finish digging in.”

He turned back to von Olden. “So don’t mess about, Colonel! Hit them as hard and as fast as you can before they’ve got time to get set! Swing right out of your march column into the attack! I’ll feed the other battalions into the fight as fast as they arrive. Clear?”

The 192nd’s aristocratic commander nodded reluctantly, clearly unenthusiastic about the whole idea. For all his aggressive posturing, Klaus von Olden was a cautious man at heart.

Willi ignored his subordinate’s uncertainty. He glanced at Thiessen. “Get on the radio to Captain Brandt. Tell him I want the approaches to that damned village cleared as quickly as he can!”

The major nodded and hurried away. Gunther Brandt commanded the brigade’s advance guard — a battle group made up of the captain’s Luchs scout cars and a Leopard company attached from the 194th Panzer for added striking power. Brandt and his men had been skirmishing with retreating Polish armor and infantry units all morning, engaging at long range and maneuvering off the highway to outflank the Poles whenever they turned to fight. It was the kind of fighting designed to minimize casualties while still gaining ground, but it was time-consuming. Von Seelow’s new orders would change that.

Whatever Montagne and his French staff officers expected, the 19th Panzergrenadier Brigade would do its damnedest to seize the Rynarzewo bridge intact.

Rynarzewo, a tiny cluster of brick and wood-frame houses split in two by the highway, lay on the south side of the Notec River. Two buildings dominated the little village — an old red brick church and a two-story, concrete-block building that served as a combination post office, library, and town hall. Outside the village, fields, pastures, isolated farmhouses, and apple orchards stretched almost as far as the eye could see. Woods stood dark in the distance. A narrow ribbon of blue, one of the Notec’s tributary streams, snaked through the green and brown landscape before cutting in front of the village and under the highway.

Two kilometers west of Rynarzewo, the twisted remains of a railway bridge lay half in and half out of the river. French jets had dropped the steel-girder span with laser-guided bombs several days before as part of the effort to keep Polish reinforcements from reaching Poznan.

But the highway bridge was still up. Troop carriers, supply trucks, and other vehicles fleeing the approaching EurCon Army lumbered across in a never-ending stream. They were the tail end of a withdrawing army and it showed. Though never beaten decisively in a stand-up fight, three weeks of almost continuous retreat were starting to take a toll on Polish morale. Heads turned apprehensively toward the south whenever sounds of gunfire crackled above the roar of traffic. Although friendly troops were still screening the retreat, everyone knew the French and Germans couldn’t be far away.

Combat engineers swarmed over the span, dodging APCs and trucks as they frantically wired it for demolition. Several hung over the sides, dangling from climbing ropes while they placed charges against the concrete piers supporting the roadway itself.

Two hundred meters from the southern end of the bridge, a short, brown-haired Polish officer hurried from house to house on the village outskirts, checking his defenses. Captain Konrad Polinski commanded the mechanized infantry company ordered to hold Rynarzewo while the engineers finished their work.

As an experienced soldier, Polinski was not happy with his company’s tactical situation. He didn’t like fighting with a river at his back — especially when the only way across was liable to go up in smoke at any minute. His small detachment was not strong enough to defend the village against a determined EurCon attack. Detailed at the last minute, C Company hadn’t had time to lay mines and barbed wire, or to dig holes with good overhead protection.

There were supposed to be T-72s stationed in the forest across the river, but that was really too far away to do much good. Rynarzewo’s buildings would also block much of their field of fire. Even the best tank gunners in the world couldn’t hit targets they couldn’t see. He couldn’t even count on reinforcements. The 421st’s other mechanized infantry companies were several kilometers beyond the river, reorganizing and refitting before coming back to form a defensive line.

The captain stopped behind a garden wall and raised his binoculars. There, at the very edge of his vision, pillars of black smoke billowed skyward. Half-hidden beneath a thick brown mustache, his mouth turned down in a sudden grimace. That was a full-fledged battle raging out there, something far more serious than the usual isolated sniping. EurCon’s leading elements must be trying to smash through the covering force guarding the retreat.

His radioman, a skinny, eighteen-year-old corporal, confirmed that. “Sir! Tango Foxtrot reports contact with a strong German unit near Kolaczkowo! Tanks and APCs both!”

Polinski swore inwardly. Kolaczkowo was the closest village — a tiny hamlet barely four kilometers down the highway. If the enemy advance guard was already there, they could be on top of him in minutes. “Order all platoons to stand to!”

“Yes, sir.”

The Polish captain spun around to look back at the vehicle-choked bridge behind him. The engineers were still hard at work. How much more time did they need? More important, how much more time would the Germans give them?

Smoke from burning buildings, burning vehicles, and turret-mounted grenade launchers had turned the battlefield outside Kolaczkowo into a gray, hazy, nightmarish swirl of deadly, split-second encounters.

“Veer right! Right!” Lieutenant Werner Gerhardt screamed, already hoarse from yelling orders above the deafening noise all around. He tightened his grip on the hatch coaming as his mammoth Leopard 2 roared out of its own smoke screen and swung sharply to avoid a wrecked vehicle dead ahead. Fifty-five tons of steel moving at high speed clipped the burning Luchs scout car, sending it tumbling out of the way in a high-pitched, grinding shriek of tearing metal.

Another tank, a Polish T-72, appeared almost directly ahead, trundling backward in a tangle of flapping camouflage netting as it reversed out from behind a farmhouse. Its 125mm cannon still pointed away from the German lieutenant’s Leopard.

“Gunner! Target at one o’clock!” Gerhardt squeezed the turret override, guiding the Leopard’s main gun around himself.

“Sabot up!”

“Fire!”

Hit point-blank, the T-72 slid sideways and exploded. Steel splinters thrown by the blast spanged off the Leopard’s own armor and screamed over Gerhardt’s head. He ducked and then stood higher, looking from side to side for new dangers.

More German tanks emerged from the smoke, strung out in a long fighting line. The lieutenant tallied them rapidly while still searching for signs of the enemy. Counting his own Leopard, ten of A Company’s twelve vehicles had survived the tank duel.

As the smoke cleared, he could see that the Polish rear guard and Captain Brandt’s scout company had been far less fortunate. Destroyed T-72s, BMPs, and German Luchs scout cars covered the fields on both sides of the highway, facing in every direction in mute testimony to the confused, savage nature of the short battle. Only his own tanks were still moving.

Gerhardt switched his radio to the brigade frequency. “Top Cat One, this is Falconer One.”

“Go ahead, Falconer.” Major Thiessen’s voice sounded distorted, wavering in and out between bursts of static. The 19th’s headquarters unit must be on the move.

Gerhardt released the transmit button on his mike. “We’ve cleared the first village. Now proceeding toward the river.”

“Acknowledged, Falconer. Where is Prowler One?”

The lieutenant stared out across the battlefield and swallowed hard. He looked away. “Captain Brandt and his men are dead, Top Cat. All of them are dead.”

Von Seelow’s own calm, determined voice came on line. There was no time now to mourn Brandt and his men. Controlling his emotions, he said, “Understood, Lieutenant. Can you continue the attack?”

Gerhardt gripped the turret ring, regaining his own control. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Von Seelow’s voice took on a sharper edge. “Keep moving, Falconer. Press them hard. Don’t let them regroup! Predator One is right behind you.”

Gerhardt stared down the highway. The colonel was correct. He could already see the 192nd Panzergrenadier Battalion’s infantry-filled Marders pouring into Kolaczkowo in column. He signed off and relayed the necessary orders to his crews.

Alpha Company’s ten surviving Leopard 2s rumbled north toward the bridge at Rynarzewo.

Polinski breathed a faint sigh of relief. The last canvas-sided trucks, BMPs, and GAZ jeeps were finally inching their way toward the Rynarzewo bridge, and the black ribbon of highway stretched away empty to the south. Even the sounds of firing had stopped. Captain Kubiak’s covering force must have stopped the German probes cold. Good. The engineers still hadn’t finished wiring the bridge and every extra minute counted.

He glanced at the radioman hovering nervously beside him.

“Contact Tango Foxtrot. Ask them how much longer they can hold before handing off to us.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Polinski lifted his binoculars again. Plumes of bluish-black exhaust appeared behind a low rise roughly a kilometer away. There were tanks moving out there, diesel engines straining even on the shallow uphill grade. He frowned. Why hadn’t Kubiak’s T-72s reported in before falling back so far?

“Sir! I can’t raise Tango Foxtrot!” the radioman stammered, aghast., “Jesus Christ.” Polinski saw a line of armored vehicles appear like magic along the crest of the rise he’d been scanning. Large, angular turrets and dark green, brown, and black camouflage schemes identified them as enemy Leopards — not Polish T-72s. His mouth dropped open in shock. They were under attack!

The German tanks fired, opening up in one long, rippling salvo that sent shell after shell screaming low overhead. Trucks crowding the bridge approaches on both sides of the river began going up in flames. The Leopards were methodically working their way from front to back — gutting trapped vehicles with high-explosive rounds.

Horrified, Polinski let the field glasses fall down around his neck. He whirled and grabbed the corporal’s arm. “Come on!” he roared, tugging the young soldier toward the concrete-block building serving as the company’s command post. “Back to the CP!”

They raced down the street, running hard past blazing trucks and jeeps. Torn bodies, jagged, blast-warped shards of metal, and shredded truck tires littered the pavement in front of them.

Polinski threw himself through the post office door and took the stairs up two at a time. He skidded into the second-floor library room serving as his company headquarters unit. Maps and a longer-range radio sat on one of the reading tables. The sandbags, bookcases, and books piled across its windows offered a measure of protection against small-arms fire and shell fragments.

A worried-looking lieutenant, his second-in-command, looked up from the radio with evident relief. “Captain! Battalion’s on the line!”

The captain grabbed the headset. “Polinski here!”

“This is Major Korytzki, Captain. What the hell is happening over there?”

Polinski scowled. He loathed the major, and he knew the feeling was mutual. A born staff man, Zbigniew Korytzki had taken charge when the battalion’s old commander was killed near Poznan. Since then his combat troops and line officers had scarcely ever seen the man. He always seemed to lead from far to the rear, preferably from inside an armored command vehicle. “We’re being fired on by at least one company of enemy armor, Major! I request reinforcements.”

“Impossible,” Korytzki said crisply. “You have antitank weapons. I suggest you use them. In any event, you must hold your position until the engineers have completed their work. Remember your duty, Captain! And keep me informed. Korytzki, out.”

Polinski ripped the headset off and tossed it back to his executive officer. He mastered his temper with difficulty. “See if you can raise the CO of that tank outfit across the bridge. Tell him we need help to claw a few Leopards off our backs.”

The lieutenant nodded and turned to obey him.

“Sir!” The shout came from a sergeant watching out one of the windows. “Enemy infantry carriers approaching — many of them!”

Polinski peered out through a slit they’d left in their makeshift barricades. German Marder fighting vehicles were visible now, rolling down off the same low rise held by their own tanks. Twenty at least. Probably more. Wonderful. They were being hit by a battalion-plus of panzergrenadiers. He whirled toward his radioman. “All platoons! Open fire!”

The Marders roared closer, charging across the open fields. They fanned out while rolling forward. The captain swore out loud, suddenly realizing the Germans were deploying from column into line right in front of his face. Cocky bastards!

Three TOW missiles leapt toward the Marders. Two hit their targets and exploded. Further along the line, Polish BMP-Is opened up with 73mm cannon, pumping HEAT — high-explosive antitank — rounds out at the rate of eight per minute. More German troop carriers slewed sideways and began burning.

Retaliation came swiftly.

In quick succession, accurate fire from the overwatching Leopards and 25mm rounds spray-fired from the Marders fireballed two of C Company’s three TOW-Humvees and smashed a third of its BMPs into smoking ruin. More shells slammed into several of the houses on Rynarzewo’s outskirts. Rubble spilled out into the narrow village streets.

Polinski stared out through the firing slit, straining to see the enemy assault wave through all the smoke and dust. Were they going to try driving right through his defenses? No! The surviving Marders were stopping in whatever cover they could find — behind farmhouses and gentle knolls, inside orchards, and behind their own destroyed comrades. Soldiers tumbled out of each fighting vehicle. Now that most of the Germans were within four hundred meters of his line, they were continuing their attack dismounted.

The Polish captain’s eyes focused on the stretch of relatively open ground the enemy infantry would have to cover. He bared his teeth and turned to his second-in-command. “Contact the artillery, Jozef! Tell them we have a fire mission!”

Von Seelow hung on grimly as the Marder he was riding in swerved suddenly, dropped into a ditch, and bounced out — all without slowing down.

Whammm!

A near miss rocked the speeding vehicle. Fragments and pieces of shattered rock rattled against its side armor. Even with the Marder’s hatches closed, the noise was ear-shattering, almost maddening in its intensity.

Von Seelow spoke into the Marder’s intercom. “How much further, Gerd?” Another close explosion punctuated his query.

“Not far, Herr Oberstleutnant!” the vehicle’s commander shouted. “I’ve got Predator One in sight!”

“Good. Take us right up next to him.”

The Marder jolted through another drainage ditch, bumped over what felt like a low wall, and braked to a stop. Without the engine turning over at full power, the drumming roar of the Polish barrage was even louder and more menacing.

Moving rapidly now, von Seelow unbuckled his safety belt and got up, crouching to clear the low armored ceiling. He pulled a G3 assault rifle out of the clips beside his seat. Captain Meyer, one of his aides, and Private Neumann, his radioman, imitated him, checking their own gear and personal weapons. Both tugged at their Kevlar body armor, assuring themselves that the flak jackets were securely fastened.

Willi put his hand on the button that would drop the Marder’s rear ramp and took a last look around the troop compartment. “Ready, gentlemen?”

They nodded.

“All right. Remember, spread out right away, don’t bunch up. Then run like hell for von Olden’s vehicle! Understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Despite the standard and expected response, Meyer sounded uncertain. Sweat beaded his high pale forehead. “But I must ask you once more to remain here… in relative safety. Let me bring Lieutenant Colonel von Olden to you instead.”

“No.” Willi shook his head firmly. There were times when a leader had to put himself at risk to get results. This was one of those times. He took several quick breaths and punched the release button. “Go!”

The ramp clanged open.

They were in a farmyard. Waist-high stone walls enclosed a dilapidated wooden barn and the wreckage of a small, wood-frame house blown apart by a Polish artillery shell. Flames danced eerily in the ruins, licking up the two walls still standing. Near the barn, an old tractor lay toppled on its side. A sow and her piglets lay dead inside a muddy sty.

Beyond the farmyard, gently rolling fields planted in oats and rye stretched toward Rynarzewo. Burning German vehicles dotted the fields. Hundreds of men wearing helmets and camouflage battle dress lay prone among the standing grain, cowering as shells rained down all around them. The Polish barrage had pinned the 192nd Panzergrenadier Battalion in place.

Klaus von Olden’s command Marder lay just a few meters away, partially veiled by the smoke, Willi headed in that direction, running flat out.

Another salvo arced out of the sky with a freight-train roar.

“Incoming!” Willi shouted. He threw himself flat next to von Olden’s vehicle.

Whammm! Whammm! Whammm!

The ground rocked, bounced, and rolled as shell after shell slammed to earth just outside the farmyard and exploded in a hail of flame and deadly steel splinters.

With his ears still ringing, Willi spat to clear the taste in his mouth and got to his feet. He used the butt of his rifle to hammer on the Marder’s armored flank. “Open up!”

The command vehicle’s ramp fell open, exposing an interior compartment already crowded with two fold-down map tables, a radio set, and three haggard-looking men — von Olden, his battalion operations chief, and a sergeant who manned their communications gear. Willi, Neumann, and Meyer ducked inside.

The ramp closed right behind them, cutting off some of the noise outside. He squeezed over to where the 192nd’s CO sat. “I need a situation report, Colonel.”

Von Olden glared up at him. “Can’t you tell?” His hands clenched and unclenched repeatedly. “My men are being murdered by Polish artillery! We can’t go forward and we can’t go back! It’s impossible!”

Willi frowned. From the quiver in his voice, von Olden was riding right on the edge.

The communications sergeant interrupted. “Striker One is on line, Herr Oberstleutnant. His guns are deployed.”

That was good news. The eighteen 155mm self-propelled howitzers of the brigade’s artillery battalion were finally ready to fire.

“Can he hit the Polish batteries?” Willi asked.

“No, sir. They’re out of range.”

Willi nodded. He’d expected as much. Content to hold the river line, the Poles had placed their artillery far enough back to avoid German counterbattery fire. Too bad. Victory in war usually went to the side that made the fewest mistakes, and Poland’s field commanders weren’t making enough mistakes.

“Then tell him I need smoke to cover my withdrawal!” von Olden demanded suddenly. He glanced at his operations chief. “Order all companies to fall back immediately. We’ll regroup near Kolaczkowo.”

“Hold it, Major.” Willi’s flat tone stopped the man dead. He looked hard at the 192nd’s commander. “No one withdraws. We’re not scuttling off with our tails between our legs. Not when we’re this close to that damned bridge! Get your troops moving again and use the artillery to screen your attack.”

Von Olden flushed. “I will not ask my men to commit suicide, von Seelow. They’re fought out!”

“Oh? And how do you know that?” Willi waved a hand around the crowded compartment. “Can you see through steel?” He didn’t bother hiding his contempt. Von Olden should have been outside kicking, cajoling, and inspiring his troops to press on — not sitting safe inside this armored box jabbering over the radio! He hardened his voice. “My orders stand. I suggest you implement them.”

“Go to hell!” the other man barked, stung to fury by von Seelow’s scorn. “I don’t have to obey a damned traitor, a whining, bootlicking ossie!”

Willi’s own temper flared. “Then you’re relieved!” He turned to the stunned operations chief. “I’m taking tactical command of this battalion, Major. Pass the word to all company commanders and order them to advance on my signal.”

Von Olden stood for several seconds with his mouth open, shocked speechless. When he recovered enough to talk, he stammered out, “You can’t do this! I’ll fight you all the way up the line!”

Willi nodded brusquely. “Protest all you want. But do it somewhere else. Captain Meyer!”

“Sir!”

“Wait for a break in the shelling, then escort this officer to my vehicle and arrange his safe passage to the rear area.”

“Yes, sir.” Meyer sat down across from the dumbfounded former commander of the 192nd Panzergrenadier. His hand rested casually on the pistol holstered at his side.

Willi turned away, focusing wholly on the task at hand.

“Sergeant, raise the artillery again. Starting now, I want them to dump as much smoke as they can between here and the village. So much that I could walk on the stuff!”

The sergeant hurried to obey.

Satisfied that his instructions were being carried out, he picked up his rifle and dropped the Marder’s troop compartment ramp. “All right, Private Neumann. Let’s go.”

“Wait!”

Willi turned to find Klaus von Olden, sagging and suddenly looking much older, clutching the door frame.

“Where are you going?”

Von Seelow’s answer was brutally frank. “To do your job, Colonel.” He spun away and headed toward the fields where the 192nd lay pinned down. Neumann, bent low under the weight of his radio gear, trotted along behind.

More Polish artillery rounds landed ahead and to either side.

Willi scrambled over the farmyard’s low stone wall and pulled the radioman over after him. Dead and wounded men were scattered all around — cut down by the enemy barrage or by machine-gun fire from the village in front of them. He paused, scanning the fields for the telltale whip antenna of a manpack radio that would mark a command group.

There. He spotted one waving above a small group clustered near a wrecked Marder. He and Neumann sprinted across the open ground — ducking whenever enemy shells exploded.

But now German guns were answering the Polish barrage, firing salvos of smoke blossomed wherever the shells exploded, mingling to form a thick, gray-white cloud drifting slowly downwind.

Near the smoldering Marder, a dark-haired man wearing the three light gray pips of a captain on his shoulder straps saw von Seelow and Neumann and waved them on. “Faster! Faster! Hurry up, you goddamned fools! You want to get killed?”

Willi reached the little group of soldiers and dropped into their midst, breathing heavily. Their eyes widened when they saw his rank and recognized him. He grinned. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

The captain stammered an apology, but von Seelow shook his head. “There’s no need for that. You were quite right. Clearly anybody stuck out here in this field is a goddamned fool.”

A few men chuckled nervously. The rest flinched as another Polish salvo landed only a couple of hundred meters away. German artillery rounds howled overhead in an eerie counterpoint.

Willi watched the smoke screen billowing higher and higher above the peaked roofs of Rynarzewo and nodded in satisfaction. It seemed dense enough now to blind any Polish artillery spotters stationed there. Once he got these men out of the killing zone and closer to the enemy’s own positions, the Poles would have a hard time adjusting their fire to hit them again.

He looked at the young officer who had yelled at him. “What’s your outfit, Captain?”

“B Company, Herr Oberstleutnant.”

Willi studied the frightened faces turning his way. Words alone would not be enough to move these men forward into enemy fire. Stunned by heavy casualties and the incessant shelling, they were too near the breaking point. They needed an example — his example.

So be it. Rank should not confer immunity from risk. He climbed to his feet and stood motionless for several moments, ignoring the explosions plowing the earth alt around. He wanted them all to see him. Then he raised his voice to carry above the barrage. “All right, B Company! On your feet! Up! Up! Up!”

Led by their captain, soldiers began scrambling upright. In ones and twos at first. Then in larger numbers as the force of example spread. Officers and NCOs in the battalion’s two other companies saw what was going on and started urging their own men up, too.

Von Seelow held up his rifle and pointed toward the Polish village, now all but invisible through the dense, man-made haze. “We’re going forward,” he shouted. “We’re going into that town. And we’re going to take that damned bridge. Now follow me!”

Without waiting for a response, he swung into a fast walk and headed for Rynarzewo. Neumann fell in at his side, pacing him. Only Willi could hear the diminutive radioman muttering a simple childhood prayer over and over. He found his own lips forming the same heartfelt words. “Oh, God, keep me safe. Oh, God, make me strong.” Another, older part of him added, “And give these men the courage they need to come after me.”

His prayers were answered. With a ragged cheer, the soldiers of the 192nd Panzergrenadier Battalion surged forward, passed him, and plunged into the smoke.

Half the village was on fire. Columns of thick black smoke from burning buildings blended with the lighter gray mists spawned by the German artillery shells. Wrecked vehicles dotted the streets. Some were surrounded by sprawled corpses. Others seemed undamaged but were abandoned.

From his vantage point at one of the post office building’s barricaded windows, Captain Konrad Polinski caught signs of movement down by the river and stared intently through the drifting haze. There! The wind tore a small hole in the smoke, and he saw German soldiers dashing from one house to the next, firing from the hip. The Germans were inside Rynarzewo! Worse, he and the rest of his troops were cut off from their only way back across the Notec River.

Sick at heart, he turned to his radioman. “Get that engineer CO now!”

“Major Beck, sir.” The corporal passed him the headset.

“What do you want, Captain?” Beck asked. The commander of the combat engineers sounded understandably worried. If the Germans broke through Polinski’s defenses, his men would be dangerously exposed to enemy fire.

“Are your charges laid yet?”

“Almost. We need another five minutes.”

A German machine gun opened up somewhere outside the post office, sending rounds tearing through the windows. Polinski dropped behind a solid oak reading table, seeking cover. He kept his grip on the headset. “Hell, Major, you may not have five minutes!”

Willi von Seelow crouched beside a second-story window in a ruined house on the river. He could see the span perfectly from here. He could also see the Polish engineers busy rigging the bridge for demolition. More and more of them were peeling away, running toward the north end and safety as they finished their work.

He and his troops were too late. Although they were just two hundred meters from their objective, they might as well be on the far side of the moon. The Poles were going to blow the Rynarzewo bridge, and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do to stop them.

The radio on Neumann’s back caught his eye. He still had one desperate card left to play. “Contact Striker One,” he ordered.

When the brigade artillery commander’s voice came on line, von Seelow took the mike Neumann offered him. “Striker One, this is Top Cat. I have a priority fire mission.”

“Go ahead, Top Cat. My guns are standing by.”

Willi keyed the mike. “Target location is the center span of the Rynarzewo highway bridge. Troops moving in the open.”

“Understood, Top Cat. Wait one.”

Von Seelow crouched by the window, watching the Polish combat engineers working with mounting impatience. Come on, come on, he silently urged his distant gunners. We’re running out of time.

The radio crackled again. “Shot, over.”

A single shell, a spotting round, howled overhead and exploded in an open field just across the Notec.

Willi clicked the transmit button and yelled, “Shot, out. Drop one hundred meters and fire for effect!”

“Oh, my God.” Major Zbigniew Korytzki stared fixedly at the bridge, watching in horror as five German artillery shells fused to burst in midair exploded just above the unprotected engineers.

Thousands of razor-sharp fragments whirred outward from each explosion, striking bridge concrete, the water, and human flesh with murderous impartiality. Men who survived the first salvo were cut down by a second and then a third. When the shelling finally stopped, corpses lay heaped one on top of another across the span. Many of the dead combat engineers were so shredded and torn that they looked more like piles of bloody rags than human beings.

The major felt his hands starting to shake. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to see this kind of butchery. Acid-tasting bile rose in his throat. His long-held beliefs were being proved right. Being so close to the battlefield only clouded a commander’s judgment and made logical decision-making almost impossible.

With an effort he pulled his gaze away. German soldiers were visible along the riverbank now, sprinting from building to building as they drew closer to the bridge approaches. Polish machine guns and assault rifles crackled in the distance. Korytzki shook his head sadly. A few of C Company’s isolated squads were still fighting, but they were doomed by the enemy’s superior numbers and firepower.

He swept his binoculars through an arc. Movement just beyond the burning village caught his attention. German Leopards were advancing, rolling forward through the lingering smoke. Forward toward the bridge. Forward toward him.

Korytzki froze for several precious seconds, unable to think past the possibility of his own death.

When he could move again, he whirled around, leaning far out over the side of his BMP to see where the commander of the slaughtered combat engineers knelt. His eyes focused on the gray metal detonator box beside the man. “Major Beck!”

When the tall, bespectacled engineer officer looked up, Korytzki could see tears staining his cheeks.

“Blow the bridge!”

Beck stared back at him as though he’d gone mad. “But what about your men, Major? What about your troops across the river?”

“My men are dead, Major. Just like yours,” Korytzki snarled. He jabbed a finger toward the river. “Now, blow that fucking bridge!”

Slowly, almost as though he were moving against his own will, the engineer reached out, took hold of the detonator box, and turned the key.

The Rynarzewo highway bridge disappeared in a rippling series of explosions that raced the length of the span. A dense smoke pall cloaked the scene, lit from within by several more bright white blasts as secondary charges went off.

Von Seelow sagged back from the window in dismay. It was all for nothing, he thought wearily. I’ve thrown away my soldiers’ lives for nothing.

“Herr Oberstleutnant! Look!” Neumann’s startled yell snapped his head up.

The bridge was still up. Badly battered, buckled in places, and punctured by several huge holes and deep, jagged craters, yes, but very definitely still standing.

Willi’s eyes widened in astonishment. The artillery fire he’d walked in on top of the Polish engineers must also have cut some of their detonator wires, he realized. Not all of them, obviously — just enough to keep the span largely intact.

Tanks and other heavy armored vehicles couldn’t make it across — not until his own engineers had time to make hasty repairs — but foot soldiers could use it now. Right now. He grabbed the radio mike. “All Predator companies, this is Top Cat! Cross the bridge! Repeat, cross the bridge!”

Obeying his orders, small bands of panzergrenadiers broke from cover and stormed onto the span. Ignoring sporadic shooting from Polish die-hards still holding several positions along the river, the German infantrymen raced north toward the opposite bank. A few of them fell dying, shot in the back by rifle and machine-gun fire. The rest pressed on, fanning out across the countryside to seize and hold a bridgehead.

Willi could see several Polish T-72s and a few scattered BMPs pulling out, retreating north along the highway at high speed. They were fleeing from infantry? Why, he wondered?

The sudden roar of powerful diesel engines and the full-throated bark of tank cannon gave him the reason.

Lieutenant Gerhardt had brought his Leopards right down to the water’s edge. Now they were busy pummeling the retreating Poles — keeping them on the run while the 192nd’s survivors dug in around the bridge.

More vehicles pulled up beside the Leopards, Marders from the 191st. Willi breathed a quick sigh of relief. Now that the leading elements of his brigade’s other fighting battalions were beginning to arrive, he should have enough men and firepower on hand to root out the Poles still holed up inside Rynarzewo. Once that was accomplished, he could start funneling more troops across the highway bridge to expand the 19th’s foothold on the north bank of the Notec. Tanks and other heavy equipment would have to wait until the engineers repaired the bridge and laid temporary pontoon spans to handle even more traffic.

Still planning his next moves, von Seelow turned away from the window and headed outside to confer with his battalion and company commanders. He felt an odd mixture of elation and sorrow. Against all the odds but at a painfully high human cost, his soldiers had won a stunning victory. The 19th Panzergrenadier Brigade had cracked the Notec River line before the Poles had time to form a cohesive defense.

EurCon’s II Corps had its bridgehead on the main road to Gdansk.

Several dozen American officers wearing battle dress and their web gear sat in rows inside the Gdansk Town Hall’s main council chamber — the Red Room. Their warlike, woodland camouflage pattern uniforms were a stark contrast with the chamber’s ornate, sixteenth-century decor and its colorful Baroque ceiling and wall paintings. The Poles were letting the U.S. Army use the room for a briefing theater. Easels covered with large-scale maps and charts occupied one side of the chamber, surrounded by the brigade staff.

The assembled line officers were edgy, aware that something big was in the works. They’d been summoned to this emergency brief by the 3rd Brigade’s commander, Colonel Gunnar Iverson. Outside the building, Gdansk’s city streets were jammed with Polish and American military vehicles heading south. The armed sentries stationed outside the Red Room doors were another sign of impending trouble.

Sitting at the back with the other company commanders, Captain Mike Reynolds stifled a yawn. He’d had only four hours’ sleep in the past twenty-four, and that small amount had come in even smaller pieces. Unfortunately sleep deprivation was becoming a pattern. Their first day in Poland had passed in a jet-lagged confusion of unfamiliar streets and hurried procedures as the brigade first found, then took possession of, its equipment. None of the four days since then had been much more restful. Or less frustrating.

After all the rash to get them to Poland in the first place, it had seemed strange that the 101st and its constituent brigades were still sitting on their collective butts only a few klicks from the Gdansk Airport. To many of the airborne troopers, the delay seemed just another typical army snafu, a standard case of “hurry up and wait.” But Reynolds was pretty sure there had been a lot more to it than that.

The scuttlebutt at brigade HQ was that the 101st and parts of the 82nd Airborne were being held as a “strategic reserve” — as an American trip-wire force to deter the Russians from jumping in on the EurCon side. The rumors had gained powerful credibility when all of the division’s operations and intelligence officers were summoned to a special briefing on last-ditch defensive positions around Warsaw — defensive positions facing east. Just the possibility of Russian intervention sent chills down the captain’s spine. Getting caught in a land war against the French, the Germans, and the Russians seemed like a surefire prescription for a short fight and a long stretch as a POW — or an eternity as a dead man.

Reynolds shifted uneasily in his chair. Whatever the reason, the five-day delay had not been wasted. Although they’d been ready to go into combat within hours of touching down from the States, the extra time had given the division a much-needed chance to sort itself out. During the emergency deployment to Poland, their weapons and vehicles had been packed “administratively,” meaning tightly, to make the most efficient use of the valuable space aboard the USAF’s cargo planes. Once in Gdansk, the 101st’s forward staging base, everything had to be assembled and checked out, before being readied for helicopter deployment to the front. With that done, the division’s brigade and battalion commanders had run their units through an intensive series of combat drills and physical training, honing the 101’s already sharp edge even sharper.

Well, it looked like their mini-Phony War was finally coming to an end.

“Attention!”

Boots slammed onto the floor as the brisk command brought Reynolds and the others to their feet. Accompanied by a single aide, Colonel Iverson marched to the front of the room and stood facing them.

“Take your seats, gentlemen.” Iverson waved them down impatiently. “I’ll keep it short and sweet. This is no drill. We’re going into the line against EurCon.” He ignored the stir that caused and turned to his S-2, the brigade intelligence officer. “Start your dog-and-pony show, John. I want this outfit on the move before dark.”

Reynolds nodded to himself. There’d be no fancy speeches from this officer. Iverson had a reputation for being quick, to the point of brusqueness. If you weren’t ready to say something useful when you went in to see him, you didn’t bother going.

The S-2 moved to center stage. His presentation was what everyone had been waiting for. It touched on the real reason for their being there: the enemy’s latest moves.

He pointed to the largest easel-mounted map as he talked. EurCon’s first two pincer attacks against the Polish Army had failed. Now the French and Germans had turned north and were driving on Gdansk. And the most recent reports from the battle front said EurCon troops were across the Notec River. Their armored spearheads were already closing in on Bydgoszcz, an important road and rail junction just 150 kilometers south of Gdansk’s vital port facilities.

That might seem like a lot, but every American soldier on Polish soil had heard stories about just how quickly the EurCon Army, especially its German components, could move. The rear-area types, always nervous about their own skins, were convinced that French and German tanks might show up at the Renaissance High Gate any second, blasting their way into the city.

Reynolds and his men held a combat soldier’s contempt for anyone stationed safely outside artillery range, but the tales hit a nerve anyway. Light soldiers do not think of themselves as mobile, in spite of their helicopters. Tough, yes, but they still walked on the battlefield. In a mobile battle they could be quickly cut off and destroyed in detail, and this was a fast-moving war.

Now they would find that out at first hand. Worn down by three weeks of gallant resistance against superior numbers, the Polish Army was starting to crack. Positions that should have been held for days were falling in hours. And Russian threat or no Russian threat, the Combined Forces couldn’t let EurCon capture Gdansk.

“Attention!”

Iverson’s call startled the intelligence officer, intent on his task. Reynolds and the others leapt to their feet a second time as Maj. Gen. Robert J. “Butch” Thompson strode into the chamber. Thompson was the Big Dog from Hell, the top soldier in the whole 101st Airborne.

At a distance, the division commander looked like a man of average height. But nobody held on to that impression once they’d seen him up close or in company with other men. He actually stood half a head taller than Mike’s own six feet. The general wore his gray-streaked blond hair cut very close over a powerful, square-jawed face and ice-cold blue eyes. Thompson had led the 101st for over a year, and during that time he’d imparted his characteristic drive to the entire division.

The general took position in front of the S-2’s maps and charts. “First, I want to compliment this brigade on the job you’ve done getting over here and getting ready to fight.”

He glanced at the maps behind him, but returned his gaze to the assembled officers almost immediately. “I know everyone here wants to get in and mix it up with the bad guys. Some of you have fought before, but for many this is going to be your first time in combat. You may be worried about how you’ll do. That’s natural. All I ask is that you remember your training and that you remember your men. You have the best of both — the best in the world.

“Now, we’re not out to defeat EurCon all by ourselves. People have been calling us a fire brigade. That’s not quite right. We’re not here to put out the fire, just to keep it from spreading.

“My intention is to delay the enemy, slowing him by any means possible, while conserving our own strength. We all want to die in bed, but more important, this division will be the only significant help the Poles can expect for some time to come. So our mission is to wear EurCon down until our own heavy units can arrive in strength.”

Thompson paused, letting that sink in. “That won’t be easy. Make no mistake, we’re in for a hard fight, but I’ve got the hard fighters to do it. And by the time we’re through with ‘em, these EurCon bastards are gonna be mighty sorry they ever tangled with the Screaming Eagles.” He nodded to them. “That’s all, gentlemen. Good luck and may God bless you all. Air Assault!”

After the division commander left, the rest of the 3rd Brigade’s staff officers finished filling them in on the hundreds of details they needed to move and fight in a foreign land. For Mike Reynolds, their rapid-fire dissertations on movement routes and maintenance, fueling, and rearming points passed in something of a blur — subordinated to a single, overwhelming reality. This briefing was in deadly earnest. All of his years at West Point and in the army since, all the years of learning, training, and preparing, were coming to fruition. He was going to lead his troops into battle.

When the staff finished, Colonel Iverson stepped forward for his own laconic version of the pep talk. “Send ’em to hell. Dismissed.”