Cauldron

CHAPTER 35 Cataclysm

Willi von Seelow was still refining his plans, trying to find some combination of moves that would give his brigade an extra edge when it went into battle. He could not change geography or the clock. Unless they broke through soon, today, and kept moving, they would never make it to Gdansk in time.

He knew what the Americans were capable of. Back when he’d reluctantly served East Germany’s dying regime, he had trained against the “NATO threat.” After the reunification, he’d trained with the Americans as new allies. He cursed them now. If not for the infantry division dug in to his front, his brigade would be halfway to Gdansk by now. Worse, the stubborn resistance his brigade had encountered in its first attack against Swiecie was only the barest taste of what lay ahead.

Right now, ships loaded with Abrams tanks and Bradley fighting vehicles, trucks, and supplies crowded the docks at the Polish port. Commercial passenger jets were shuttling soldiers in around the clock. It would take some time to restore the collection of machines and men into fighting units. That interval measured how long he had to get there.

Tasked by II Corps with conducting the breakthrough, General Leibnitz, the 7th Panzer Division’s commander, had left von Seelow and his “Bloody 19th” in the lead. Willi was grateful for the general’s show of confidence in his abilities, but putting the 19th Panzergrenadier first also made good military sense. As the division’s sole infantry-heavy formation, the brigade was the best suited to fighting through the difficult terrain in front of them, opening a path for the panzer brigades behind them.

At last, he laid down his pen and stood back — satisfied that the attack plan he’d drawn up was the best one possible under the circumstances. He looked up at his operations chief. “See anything I’ve missed, Major?”

Thiessen shook his head. “No, Herr Oberstleutnant.”

Around them, the headquarters bustled with final preparations for the new attack. For the better part of two days now, the 7th Panzer Division had been feinting at a strongly defended part of the American line, near Bladzim. It was good tank country, and a logical route of attack. An understrength battalion from one of the 7th’s other brigades had been ordered to look like a division, and had done a good job of it.

Meanwhile, von Seelow’s troops had another target.

A stir outside the command vehicle attracted his attention, and he stepped out to see Leibnitz arriving, along with a French brigadier general whose narrow face seemed locked in a disdainful sneer. Willi scowled, but only inside, not where the Frenchman could see it. He recognized the man: Cambon, operations officer for the II Corps.

After exchanging salutes, Leibnitz asked him. “Any last-minute problems, Willi?”

Von Seelow shook his head. “No, sir. Everything is in order. My battalions are moving toward their start lines now.”

“I hope you understand the importance of this attack, Colonel,” urged Cambon. Addressing both officers, the Frenchman continued, “I will be candid. General Montagne had grave concerns about allowing this unit to play such a critical role after its earlier failures.”

Willi fought down an urge of his own — an urge to smash the French staff officer in the face. Clearly the rear-echelon drones at corps had never forgiven him for threatening to turn his guns against the fleeing French 5th Armored back at the Warta or for short-circuiting their elaborate plans to cross the Notec by grabbing his own bridge at Rynarzewo.

Leibnitz must have seen the anger on Willi’s face because he broke in before he could reply. “I have reviewed Colonel von Seelow’s plan and it is a very good one. The colonel’s grasp of tactics is excellent, and it is his right to lead this attack.”

“As you wish, General.” Cambon turned away, apparently utterly uninterested in discussing the matter any further. He sauntered toward a group of officers clustered around a map.

Von Seelow’s eyes narrowed. If II Corps was so worried about this attack succeeding, Montagne should have met more of his requests for fire support. Instead, outside of a few scraps, this was an all-German operation. Given that, it seemed obvious that the French corps commander planned to let his German “allies” pay the blood price necessary to rip a hole in the American lines. Then, if they succeeded, the rest of II Corps stood ready to pour through the gap. The French would take Gdansk, and all the credit with it.

Leibnitz moved after the Frenchman.

Willi sighed, but again only on the inside. Having the division CO looking over your shoulder was a mixed blessing. You knew you were the

Schwerpunkt,

the spearhead, but the old man got to see your every move, right and wrong. And what about the Frenchman? What kind of report was he going to make? And to whom?

Von Seelow shrugged, suddenly too fatalistic to give a damn. This was a make-or-break attack. Enemy resources were stretched to the limit, and this time he was sure there was no second defensive line. A breach would lead into an empty rear.

If his plan worked, the 7th Panzer had a chance to reach Gdansk itself, shut off the flow of reinforcements, and end the war in victory. If the attack failed, what Leibnitz or the

French thought of him wouldn’t matter, because they wouldn’t be able to win at all.

They heard the artillery first, a dull booming off in the distance. Without a word spoken, Reynolds ran for the CP. Around them Polish and American soldiers raced to take up their firing positions or man their vehicles.

The Poles were the remnants of the 314th Mechanized Regiment, assigned to brigade reserve along with Alpha Company. Commanded by Major Miroslaw Prazmo, the twenty-odd armored vehicles were a poor match for the armored corps bearing down on them. It was all the armor they had.

Sergeant Andy Ford and Prazmo were already at the CP, just hanging up the field phone. “No news from Brigade. They’re checking up the line to Division.”

The Polish major cocked his head, listening for a moment. The barrage continued, sounding like thunder, but far too even, too steady. “That is not a skirmish, Captain. I must see to my men.” The short, dark-haired tanker hurried away.

The company CP was in a small equipment shed on the outskirts of town, facing south. Biala, a small farming hamlet about ten kilometers north-northeast of Swiecie, had been their home for almost two days now. The front had been quiet for all that time, crashing against the 101st, then ebbing back, and gathering strength. The Word was that the enemy would try again soon. The question was where.

Reynolds, Ford, and Corporal Adams, his radioman, moved to the doorway, scanning the landscape to the west. Silently they listened to the pounding artillery fire, literally trying to pull information out of the air.

Ford, speculating, said, “It sounds like they’re hitting Bladzim.”

Reynolds nodded absentmindedly as he studied his map. “If the Germans punch through there, we’ll have to move fast or we might be cut off.” The problem was, of course, that Colby and the men above him would be the ones who decided when Alpha Company moved. The idea that his fate was not in his own hands was something that Reynolds accepted, but he didn’t have to like it.

He fidgeted, wanting to do something, but no real action was required. Someone else was taking the heat this time, and he resigned himself to a long morning of waiting and listening — trying to sort out what was happening from confusing and fragmentary radio and telephone messages.

Whummp. Whummp. Whummp.

A new set of explosions hammered the Polish countryside, but this time close, so close that for a moment his surprised mind chided the Germans for being so far off target. A fraction of a second later, he realized his men were the targets. Then he heard the high-pitched scream of jet aircraft howling overhead. This wasn’t artillery!

He rushed outside in time to see pointed shapes curving around to the west, and billowing brown-black smoke clouds roiling over Biala, some of them over his own troops’ positions.

Seconds after seeing the planes, Reynolds heard the now-familiar sound of incoming artillery — big stuff. He dove to the ground, hugging the outside of the shed.

A rippling chain of explosions seemed to tear apart the ground itself, but trailed off after a few volleys. Reynolds raised himself to his knees, scanning the area. Now Major Prazmo’s Poles were being hit, he judged. He hoped they were all under armor.

He could hear more artillery, too, distant, but not that distant. What was going on? This didn’t fit in with an attack on Bladzim.

He scrambled back inside the CP. Ford’s face was grim, and said more than the words did. He seemed reluctant to speak.

“Report,” ordered Reynolds.

“Second Platoon’s been hit hard, Captain.” The sergeant’s clipped tone was heavy with loss. “Those were cluster bombs, and a stick landed square on top of ‘em. Three killed, about ten wounded. Lieutenant Riley is dead. Two of the wounded need immediate medevac. And one of the Humvees is a total write-off, along with the antitank missiles it carried.”

Reynolds’s chest suddenly felt tight and ice-cold. That one German air strike had just killed or wounded more of his men than he’d lost in the whole of Alpha Company’s first battle. What could he have done differently? Probably nothing, but he wasn’t sure he believed it. What should he do now? Deaths were a part of combat, but these were his men. He tried to push the questions to the back of his mind. There were still things to do.

When they called to organize the medevac, they got the word: the brigade was being hit, hard. Armored vehicles were pouring out of the woods to their front, while a storm of artillery and air strikes pounded their positions. Radars and radios were jammed. There was no question. The Germans were going to try again, harder and faster than before.

Ford had to spend considerable time calming the corporal on the other end of the phone, who from the sound of things was ready to bolt that moment for Gdansk. The sergeant finally hung up and turned to face Reynolds. “They’re coming at us full tilt, Captain. With everything, including the kitchen sink.”

Prazmo ran in, one sleeve bloody, but apparently none of it his. Reynolds gave him a quick summary of the situation, but Prazmo barely let him finish before he declared, “We have to move, Captain. Your men, mine. All of us. The Germans move fast. Damned fast. Your general may not understand this.”

Reynolds started to protest, but the Pole cut him off, pointing to a spot on the map about two kilometers east of Biala. An irregular clump of woods, several kilometers across, lay over Highway 5 as it headed north.

“We must defend here. When the Germans break through, they will try to take this place. Look,” he urged, moving his finger north along the road. “It is the last big block. Once past this, their tanks will be out in open country.”

Reynolds gauged the terrain carefully, trying to think carefully in spite of the Pole’s urging. As brigade reserve, they were responsible for a sector almost ten kilometers across. It would take time to move there, more time to set up, and if he was wrong, they’d be out of position, helplessly watching the enemy onslaught go by them.

But blocking the highway made the most sense. Other roads led off in the wrong direction or went through tighter, more constricted terrain.

Reynolds agreed, and told Ford to have the company prepare to move. They couldn’t stay here anyway, he thought. The enemy obviously knew where they were and could hit them again. This harassing fire was bad enough.

He’d be damned if he’d move without brigade’s permission, though. Adams reached the brigade TOC, but Colonel Iverson was gone — up at one of the battalion command posts. The S-3 okayed Reynolds’ recommendation, though. “Get in those woods and watch out,” he warned. His voice took on a desperate note. “The Germans aren’t maneuvering at all. They’re coming on at full speed.”

The sound of diesel engines outside drowned out the still-falling shells. Reynolds ran out in time to see T-72 tanks and BMP fighting vehicles lumbering by. As planned, most of Alpha Company clung to the sides of the tanks or rode on top, while the Polish soldiers rode inside. Prazmo’s command tank halted long enough for Reynolds, Sergeant Ford, and Corporal Adams to climb aboard, then shot off to the east.

The ride was not gentle, although Reynolds thanked God the ground was relatively flat. Prazmo’s driver was heading pell-mell for the woodline, now a little over a kilometer away. He looked back to Biala. There was no further sign of falling artillery. Was their departure noted, then? Were they being tracked right now?

A louder-pitched whine over their heads made him look up. A flight of four AH-64 Apache gunships flashed by, low, and at top speed. A few moments later another and then another appeared. Reynolds was both heartened and concerned. That many attack birds would give the Germans something to worry about, but if they were committing the division reserve this early, just what was hitting them?

As his eye tracked the southbound helicopters, following them out of sight, more movement attracted his eye. This time he saw fighter aircraft, distant but still recognizable, and as they banked, turning toward the battlefield, he identified them as F-4 Phantom fighters, American-made, but flown by Germans. Wonderful. The Apaches would not have a free ride this time.

Suddenly he felt very exposed. He wanted to get under the trees or some sort of cover, out from under the open sky. The steel shell of the tank beneath him was hard, as unyielding as a stone. It would make a fine anvil if the Germans provided the right hammer.

Reynolds tried to organize his thoughts. Looking back and to the right, he saw the land between the woodline and Swiecie. On the northern side of town, the buildings thinned out rapidly, replaced by farmland, half-fallow, the rest planted with wheat, now half-grown.

Swiecie itself was almost smothered by masses of black and gray and white smoke. The sounds of battle were fainter and confused, but he could pick out tank guns and the crash of artillery shells. The T-72’s engine slowed as they neared the woodline, and he could hear the pop of small-arms fire as well.

The edge of the woods was sharply defined. It was an old forest, carefully tended, with little undergrowth. The trees were well spaced, mostly evergreens with a few others mixed in. Thick enough to provide cover for the infantry, they were still spaced widely enough to allow armored vehicles to pass.

Highway 5, a four-lane asphalt road, entered the woods from the southwest and came out about five hundred meters to the northeast. Beyond the road and forest, open, boggy ground sloped down to the Vistula River.

Prazmo’s tanks stopped just outside the trees to allow the American infantrymen to jump off.

Reynolds grabbed Ford’s shoulder after they’d both scrambled down off the T-72. “Okay, Andy, first thing is local security. Get a squad from 1st Platoon deployed so we don’t get bushwhacked while we’re setting up. I’ll reconnoiter the area so we can site the Javelins, then…”

Prazmo arrived, and Reynolds noticed that Ford looked uneasy. “Sir, I don’t know if we’ll be able…”

A sound grew from nothing into a howling scream and everyone dove for cover as a jet roared overhead. The delta-winged shape of a Phantom flashed by, the German Maltese crosses seeming out of place on the American-built plane. Although it did not attack, they all knew they’d been spotted.

Reynolds turned back to Ford, still snapping out instructions. He had to concentrate to hear himself speak, because Prazmo was also issuing orders in rapid-fire Polish. A small cluster of senior noncoms and officers nodded at the major’s staccato sentences. They ran off, and the Pole turned back, impatiently waiting for the younger American to finish.

Ford looked stubborn. “Skipper, we may not have time for all this. From what I heard on the horn, the goddamned Krauts are already rolling right through the rest of the brigade.”

Prazmo suddenly shouted, pointing to the south. He shouted something in Polish, his excited tone also carrying a warning. Then he repeated the call in English. “Tanks! German tanks to the south. In Swiecie!”

Oh, Christ. Reynolds used his own binoculars. Among the buildings, he picked out low square shapes moving and firing as 120mm HE shells turned American-held houses into heaps of smoldering rubble. Machine guns chattered over the crack of tank cannon.

He fought a rising sense of panic. There was so much to do. They weren’t ready. He needed more time, but even as he wished for it, he knew he wasn’t going to get it. The Germans were too close and coming on too fast.

He let the binoculars fall back around his neck and turned to Ford. “Get everyone under cover, at least forty meters in from the edge. If they shell the woodline, we don’t want to be caught. Get going, I’ll be there in a second.”

Guided by a young crewman on foot, Prazmo’s driver was already working the T-72 deeper into the woods. Reynolds studied the area once more, then proposed, “What if I take everything east from this spot, and your tanks and APCs cover from here west, back toward Biala?”

Prazmo nodded quickly. “I agree, and have already given the orders to my men.” He pointed south. “Move quickly, my friend. We have about five minutes, then they will be on us.” He hurried off.

“So much for step-by-step deployment,” Reynolds thought, as he mentally tossed FM100-5 over his shoulder. Trotting into the forest, he tried to decide what was important, what was not. The army said it was all important, not to miss any step.

Screw that. What was going to count was getting firepower onto the enemy. The rest of it could wait. Calling “Orders group!” he quickly organized the company. He split up the Javelin launchers, two to each platoon, and told them to deploy in a line, one platoon east of the highway, two platoons to the west. The outfit he’d deployed to the east, the 1st Platoon, hopefully steadied by Sergeant Ford’s calm presence, was somewhat isolated, but the clump had to be occupied or the Germans would just stick to that side of the road and roll right around him. His CP would be with his hard-hit 2nd Platoon. With Lieutenant Riley dead, they needed all the encouragement he could give them.

As the platoon leaders ran off to deploy their men, a whistling howl announced the start of another German artillery barrage.

As expected, the first volley landed short, out in the open, and the thick trees all around them gave Reynolds a feeling of protection, like an awning in a rainstorm. He knew that was deceptive, though, and he could only hope that his men were all back from the treeline. More shells exploded, battering the edge of the woods.

Adams was busy setting up the radio and frantically digging in. Reynolds ordered, “Quit that and get me Brigade.”

The corporal nodded and reached for the equipment, but warned, “Jamming’s heavy, sir. I already tried to do a check once.” He had to shout to make himself heard over the artillery fire.

“Do it again, and do it until you get through. I need contact, bad.”

Adams nodded and picked up the handset.

Braving the shells still screaming in, Reynolds darted from tree to tree, locating each of his platoon leaders. Together, they picked spots for the antitank missile launchers. The Javelins were the only long-range weapon he had, and he wanted them well sited. All six had to cover the highway. Each squad also had AT-4 rocket launchers, shorter-range and with a lighter punch. They had to hit a tank from the rear or flank to have any chance of killing it.

“Here they come!” A Javelin gunner pointed toward the open fields separating them from smoke-shrouded Swiecie. Camouflaged vehicles were visible now, emerging from the haze and moving northeast on either side of the highway — right toward them.

The enemy movement caught Reynolds while he was conferring with Ford and Lieutenant Caruso, the 1st Platoon’s leader. He dashed back across the highway at full speed, heading for his CP. His men were still trying to sort themselves out. Half were clearing brush or other obstacles for the antitank missile crews while the rest dug “hasty positions,” scrapes in the ground that barely hid your body. Soldiers often called them “shallow graves.”

Adams looked up as he skidded through the thin screen of brush surrounding the CP and dropped prone. “I got Brigade, Captain, and I’ve told them where we and the Poles are.”

“Great! Good work.” The corporal had also scraped out holes for both of them, and Reynolds rolled into his, frantically opening his map. He studied it, marking points and noting the coordinates. “Get me Brigade again.”

A first muffled whumph told him his Javelins were firing. The first wave of Germans must be just under two thousand meters away. Adams handed him the radio.

“I have an urgent fire mission, tanks in the open, coordinates one seven nine, two five six.” He raised himself up high enough to see, scanning the area with binoculars. “Target is forty-plus tanks and APCs, more stuff in the distance.”

Even as he counted the German vehicles, a small cloud puffed over one and it exploded — ignited by a Javelin missile. More missiles flashed across the open ground, but with only six launchers, they could only kill a few of the enemy at a time.

The German Leopards and Marders kept coming — thundering across the fields at full speed. Reynolds swore. This wasn’t a careful advance by bounds, just an old-fashioned cavalry charge. And against his ill-prepared infantry and Prazmo’s too-few tanks, it just might work, too.

Smoothbore 125mm guns barked from his right. The Poles were shooting now. The deep crack of tank fire was much more rapid than his own missile fire, but the tanks were hitting the Leopard 2s head-on, where their advanced armor was thickest. Prazmo’s BMP infantry fighting vehicles carried wire-guided antitank missiles, but they were an older type that couldn’t penetrate the front armor on the German tanks.

Few of the German tanks were firing yet. They could see little among the trees, even with thermal sights, and they were at maximum range for their 120mm guns, even with a stabilized turret.

Burning Leopards dotted the wheat fields now — maybe eight or ten of them. That was good shooting. But not good enough. The first elements of the German advance had closed to within a thousand meters. Marders packed with infantry followed right behind.

Polish T-72s and BMPs began going up in flames — hit by return fire from the Leopards. Machine guns and 25mm cannon mounted on the Marders chattered, tearing limbs, bark, and leaves off the trees. Reynolds flattened himself inside his shallow foxhole. The enemy APCs were trying to suppress his missile teams.

Whammm. Whammm. Whammm.

Dirt fountained skyward among the advancing Germans. Reynolds grabbed the mike again. “On target! On target! Fire for effect!”

More shells fell, exploding about five hundred meters to his front. The barrage wouldn’t kill many tanks, but it might slow them down. Even better, the deadly hail of fragments whining outward from each blast ought to keep the panzer commanders buttoned up and half-blind. The artillery fire should also pin the German panzergrenadiers inside their Marders until they, too, were in among the trees and shadows.

While the battle raged ahead, Reynolds continued to work with the map, passing new coordinates back to brigade — walking the barrage north in time with the advancing Germans. Several more Leopards and Marders were hit and wrecked, but it was clear that the attackers would reach the woods with a sizable force. That was bad. What was worse was that it was already too late for Alpha Company to retreat.

When the first Leopards were just two hundred meters away, the enemy artillery fire slackened. Fearful of hitting their own men, the German gunners had stopped flaying the woods. At this range, the tanks were immense and he felt an urge to run building inside him, but knew that would be suicidal. More important, he would be letting his men down. Men who were counting on him to bring them safely home.

Suddenly the Germans were inside the woods.

“Cover!” A burst of fire scythed the air right over his head and the crack-boom of a close explosion shoved him into the ground.

Spitting out blood and dirt, Reynolds looked up from his hole at a German Marder only fifty meters away. The APC was pointed off to their left.

The tracked vehicle was steeply sloped in the front, but boxy and high in the rear where it carried its squad of infantry. A clumsy-looking turret on the top held a 25mm cannon, a launcher for antitank missiles, and a thermal imager.

The Marder’s turret was slewed in their direction, but aimed over their heads. The gunner must have fired a suppressive burst in their direction on general principles, but now the barrel moved slightly from side to side as he searched for real targets. Its rear ramp fell open and German soldiers in camouflage gear poured outside. Some were already firing their assault rifles from the hip, pumping rounds into 2nd Platoon’s positions.

Still prone, Reynolds grabbed his M16 and opened up. Adams did the same thing, firing in short, aimed bursts. Although that turret pointing their way was intimidating, the shot was too good to pass up. Besides, the panzergrenadiers would spot them at any moment.

One man went down instantly — knocked off his feet by two or three hits. Another screamed and slid backward against the Marder, clutching a face that had been torn apart. The rest went to ground, flattening themselves behind tree trunks or in the tall grass beside the APC.

The instant the Germans disappeared, Reynolds and Adams also dove for cover — just in time. A 25mm burst rippled overhead and exploded behind them, showering them with dirt and bits of wood. The autocannon dipped lower, still firing.

Whooosh.

An antitank missile visible only as a streak of light from the left hit the Marder in the side. Sparks flew out from the point of impact, and part of the explosion inside vented out through the vehicle’s open troop compartment. Moments later, a ball of gray-white smoke cloaked the APC — luridly lit from inside by the flames consuming its fuel and ammunition.

A few more German troops appeared, bailing out of the vehicle — trying to get clear of the flames. Reynolds and his RTO shot at them, but their targets vanished in the smoke, apparently unscathed.

Firing surrounded them on all sides, mixed with sounds of diesel engines. Clouds of exhaust, woodsmoke, and dust cut visibility to almost nothing, allowing only glimpses of the combat. Inside the smoke, bright flashes of light marked a weapon firing or a vehicle being hit. Forms moved through the trees, firing, running, falling.

A storm of gunfire from their left drew the two men, and crouching almost double, they ran in the direction of 2nd Platoon’s positions. A crashing roar from the right turned into a German tank, breaking through a thicket of small trees. They threw themselves back behind a tree, watching helplessly as the armored behemoth passed close by and then rumbled into the murk.

“Shit!” Reynolds whipped around as bullets snapped past his face. There were five German infantrymen following the Leopard. Muzzle flashes stabbed out of the smoke. He snapped his M16 up and squeezed off a long burst, but recoil pulled the barrel up, and his shots went wild. The bolt clicked on an empty chamber.

He rolled right, trying to get behind the tree while frantically fumbling for a new magazine. Too late, his mind screamed. The Germans would be on top of him in a fraction of a second.

Adams popped up beside him and lobbed an egg-shaped fragmentation grenade into their midst.

The grenade went off with an ear-splitting whummp. Two of the Germans went down, bleeding and dead or unconscious. The others, stunned, stopped moving long enough for Reynolds to slam his new magazine home and fire.

Hit several times each, the panzergrenadiers stumbled backward and fell in a heap. Still holding his aim, Reynolds moved out from cover. One good look told him they were dead. He nodded his thanks to the tall, skinny corporal and then scanned the scarred woods around them, desperately trying to reorient himself. He still felt the urge to run, but just to 2nd Platoon. He had to regain control of this battle.

Sprinting, pausing, ducking occasionally, Reynolds and Adams worked their way toward 2nd Platoon’s fighting positions. At times the smoke and trees cut off all view, so that they were surrounded by a gray-green wall. The sounds of firing were no help, either, as omnipresent as the smoke.

They kept working their way east, meters seeming like miles and seconds like days. Finally Reynolds spotted Sergeant Robbins, crouched with two other soldiers. With Riley gone, the short, dark-featured sergeant was now in charge of 2nd Platoon.

Robbins spotted the captain and corporal as they ran up. “They’re past us, sir!” Frustration and fatigue filled his voice as well as his face. “We’ve knocked out ten tracks, maybe more, but they just keep coming.” The crack of cannon fire to the south announced the arrival of more enemy tanks.

“What are your casualties?” Reynolds demanded.

“Three dead I know of, probably more. Eight — no, nine wounded.”

Reynolds grimaced. Even out of a full-strength platoon of thirty-eight men, that would have been a heavy toll. But 2nd Platoon was badly understrength when the battle started, and the battle was far from over. On the other hand, his troops had already destroyed a lot of enemy armor. Was it worth the cost, though?

He couldn’t tell. From what little he could see, they’d blunted and disorganized the first wave of the German attack. The woods were full of burning vehicles and German stragglers, either tangled up with Alpha Company or pressing on to the northeast, and he was sure there were follow-on forces moving up. Alpha Company couldn’t stop them anymore. He needed more firepower.

Reynolds leaned over, speaking carefully to Adams. “Get Brigade. Tell them to shift the arty.” As the corporal picked up the handset, he pulled out the map he’d marked earlier. “New reference point is seven four, time on target, airburst. I want everything they’ve got for five minutes.”

Sergeant Robbins, standing next to him, looked at the marked spot and paled. He grabbed the two kneeling privates by the shoulders and spoke urgently. “Find the 1st and 3rd platoons. Tell them there’s incoming mail, airburst. Everyone go to ground. Move!”

The two soldiers disappeared, one to the east, one west. Robbins moved off himself, passing the word down his shattered line while Reynolds and his radioman took cover under a wrecked Leopard 2. Two privates also arrived to share the space, and all four of them kept scanning the woods.

The sounds of tank guns and light cannon mixed with machine-gun and rifle fire. They spotted men running to the southeast, but Reynolds stopped the others from firing. It was impossible to tell which side those shadowy forms belonged to.

The freight-train roar of heavy artillery suddenly drowned out the gunfire around them and the woods exploded in fire and smoke.

This was no ranging shot, no ragged one-battery barrage. The shells cascading into the narrow band of forest had been carefully timed to arrive on target almost simultaneously.

The air itself exploded, suddenly filled with millions of lethal fragments. Crouched beneath the tank, Reynolds was stunned by the ferocity he’d unleashed. This was more than the brigade artillery battalion firing. Guns from the division, maybe even the corps, must be in on the act.

Tree after tree went down with their tops blown off.

The American shells were detonating ten to twenty meters off the ground, sleeting the air with fragments and shredding anyone caught in their path. Pieces of leaves and pine needles poured down, thick enough to cover the ground like a rug.

As fragments pinged off the German tank’s steel hull, Reynolds tried to imagine being exposed in that hurricane of fire, and failed. At least his troops had been warned. The Germans, though, should have been caught by surprise. Most people killed by artillery die in the first thirty seconds. That’s about as long as it takes trained soldiers to find decent cover. So by now, everyone caught inside the barrage was either dead or cowering in some kind of shelter. Most important of all, the Germans weren’t moving.

When the artillery stopped, the silence it left behind was almost absolute. In that silence, Reynolds could hear a new noise, the bass roar of dozens of diesel engines. He crawled out from under the wreck and moved toward the edge of the woods with Adams at his side. There, grabbing his binoculars, he peered through the clearing smoke and dust to the south.

A new formation of Leopard 2s swept across the open fields, headed straight for them. He stared in horror. Neatly grouped by platoons and companies, the panzer battalion moving up could almost have been on parade. A second rank of Marder APCs followed close on their treads, and Reynolds bet that behind them was a third. Probably with more tanks in reserve.

While the first German outfit had blown open the breach, weakening itself in the process, this new enemy brigade had run through the open. Fresh, unbloodied, and moving fast, it would slam into the woods in a few minutes, and they didn’t have a prayer of stopping it.

Sergeant Robbins ran over and dropped prone beside him. “My guys are scattered all over hell, Captain. We’ve got five more dead, another six or seven wounded. Both M60s are manned, but both Javelin crews are gone, wounded or missing. We only had two missiles left anyway. I’m rallying the men now.”

Rallying what? Reynolds wondered numbly. Second Platoon couldn’t have very many men left in fighting shape. Probably fewer than a dozen. Were the other platoons in any better shape? For the first time in minutes he wondered how Major Prazmo’s Poles had fared. He glanced off to the right, toward the sector the major’s men and tanks had been holding. Columns of black smoke spiraled upward from the tangle of splintered trees.

He grimaced. He had to regain control of his scattered company. They might have some fight left, but they had to recover. It took time to reorganize and treat the wounded — time the Germans were not going to let him have.

Even as he started to pass orders, the whumph of an antitank missile told him Alpha Company was in the light again. The sound came from the left, and through the trees he saw part of the enemy tank formation turn tightly while one of their number fired its gun, presumably back toward the launcher.

From the direction the Leopards were pointing, it looked like 1st Platoon had fired. At least one of the two Javelin teams he’d assigned to Caruso’s men was still intact and had missiles to fire. He felt proud that his men still had fight left in them after all they’d been through. But stacking one or two antitank teams up against an intact enemy tank formation was asking too damned much. Even David had only had to fight one Goliath.

Another missile leapt out toward the Germans. Then another, and another, and another flashed out from under the tree — seeking targets. His pride turned to puzzlement. Altogether, almost a dozen missiles were fired, and half found marks, some far beyond Javelin range. Where the hell were those missiles coming from?

Boots crashed through the undergrowth and he heard Andy Ford’s voice calling. He answered the hail, and the noncom came running up with a stranger in tow — an American lieutenant colonel. The man wore armor insignia on his collar tab, and a 1st Armored Division patch on his shoulder. The pair stopped and dropped to one knee next to Reynolds.

“I’m Jim Kelly, 1st of the 37th, 3rd Brigade. I’ve got forty-two M-1s coming in on the highway. I need ground guides and places to put them, fast.”

Reynolds found himself staring at the colonel and closed his mouth with an effort. He pointed east and asked. “Then those missiles from the other side of the highway…?”

“Seventh Battalion of the 6th, mech infantry with Bradleys,” Kelly hurriedly explained. “My battalion will deploy west of the road.” He grabbed Reynolds’s shoulder. “If the Bradleys are already firing, we don’t have much time.”

“But how…?”

Kelly grinned. “Thought you boys might need some help, so our guys worked all last night to get their gear unpacked and then marched like bats out of hell to get here on time. But we’re it for now. The rest of the division’s still back on the docks.”

Still scarcely able to believe it, Reynolds quickly passed the word, sending runners from his 2nd and 3rd platoons back to bring Kelly’s tanks forward. Within minutes, the Alpha Company soldiers reappeared, four-tank platoons following behind like monstrous pets. Reynolds spent the time keeping his people clear of the lumbering machines, at the same time deploying riflemen and machine-gun teams into the gaps between the tank platoons. There weren’t many of them left. Fewer than half the soldiers he’d taken into battle were still on their feet.

Out in the open, he watched as German tanks and APCs maneuvered, dodging the near-continuous missile fire. Their once-neat formations were now spotted with burning vehicles, while smoke grenades popped, obscuring parts of the attacking brigade with puffs of gray-white vapor.

Around him, dozens of M1A2 tanks took position in an uneven line. The high, thin whine of their turbine engines filled the woods. There was so much commotion that Reynolds was worried that the Germans might spot them, but experience told him otherwise. The trees would conceal the American tanks, at least until they fired. After that it wouldn’t matter.

Reynolds was standing near one company commander’s tank, trying to hurriedly coordinate a fire plan, when the officer straightened up in his turret hatch. He listened to a voice in his headphones and replied, “Estimate seven hundred. We haven’t lased.” After another pause, he acknowledged the order he’d received with a quick “Roger.”

“They aren’t waiting for the rest!” he called down to Reynolds. “Are your people clear?”

Reynolds nodded. “They’d better be — ”

An ear-splitting crash interrupted him, the sound of a tank battalion firing en masse. Pressure waves from the guns on either side buffeted him, plucking at his clothing and throwing dust and leaves in his face. The smell of gun smoke was literally rammed down his nose.

Out in the track-torn wheat fields, the oncoming brigade suddenly blossomed with gray-black flowers. Where the shells found their mark, and at least two-thirds had, German armor burned.

He barely had time to recover from the first blast when a second followed, almost in unison. The shock waves were knocking him off balance, and he dropped prone rather than get slammed off his feet.

The third volley was much more ragged as faster loaders and better-coordinated crews outpaced their counterparts. By the fourth, the firing had become a continuous roar.

Caught at short range in the open, the Germans, who had been expecting the woods to be clear, instead ran into a hail of tank-killing fire. At half a klick, the Abrams’ 120mm shells had more than enough killing power to rip through a Leopard 2 tank, or literally dismantle a thin-skinned Marder. While the Americans were in firing positions that allowed them to see and shoot out, all the Germans had to shoot at were half-concealed shapes. They had only three options: kill the enemy, find cover, or die.

A few of the Leopards tried to return fire — sending sabot rounds crashing through the trees in front of them. Most missed, and few of the German tanks had time for a second shot. Almost as soon as it started, though, the volume of fire fell away. The Leopards and Marders died or went to ground.

Reynolds raised his head, still in shock. Three minutes of firing had been enough to stop the German brigade cold. Through his binoculars, he counted thirty dead tanks and as many APCs — slewed crazily at all angles amid the flattened wheat. There were no signs of life or movement. EurCon’s grand attack had been stopped.

No, he thought coldly, more than stopped. The Germans who’d come storming across those fields so boldly had been butchered. It would be a long time before the bastards recovered from this disastrous attack.

Alpha Company had held just long enough.

Half-deafened, Reynolds stood slowly and shook himself, like a man coming out of the water. Voices and engine noises replaced the silence, and he slowly began to realize that nobody was going to shoot at him in the immediate future.

As he gathered what was left of his company and set about finding out what Brigade wanted him to do, the roar of jet engines through the sky brought fear back up his throat again. A glance upward, though, showed them to be American and Polish planes, loaded with bombs and headed southwest. Flight after flight screamed overhead, hugging the earth on the way to their targets.

EurCon had reached its high-water mark. Now the tide was turning.

The steady flood of damaged tanks and horribly wounded men filtering back from Swiecie told its own story of defeat and despair, but radioed reports confirmed the worst.

Von Seelow put down the handset and looked at Leibnitz. His face was pale. “That was Major Schisser. Colonel Baum is dead, along with most of the 21st Panzer. The highway north is blocked by large numbers of tanks and missile vehicles. Our men came under intense fire just short of the woods.” He swallowed hard. “Casualties are very heavy — at least forty percent, probably much more.”

Leibnitz’s face was a mask of shock and repressed sorrow. Willi knew that the division commander and Baum had been friends for a long time. More telling than that was the destruction of the 21st Panzer Brigade — the follow on force for his own decimated command. Minutes before, Baum’s Leopards and Marders had been the leading edge of the German breakthrough, actually passing through the breach and headed full speed up the highway. Near full strength and unengaged, they should have been able to crush anything the Americans or the Poles could throw in their path. Instead, they were strewn across the open countryside — wrecked and on fire.

Beside the 7th Panzer’s stricken leader, General Cambon exclaimed, “Those woods were supposed to be clear!” He turned to face von Seelow. “Your brigade reported overrunning the American infantry there. Obviously your incompetent fools missed something.”

Sneering openly now, he challenged the two Germans. “Well, what will you do now?”

Willi set his teeth.

Leibnitz asked, “Is General Montagne willing to commit the exploitation force? We can keep the breach open…”

“Down!” Major Thiessen screamed.

The staff officer’s warning barely preceded the roar of enemy aircraft streaking low overhead. Bombs and cluster munitions tumbled off wing racks. Explosions rippled through the brigade area. Thick, choking smoke billowed over von Seelow and the others as they hugged the grass.

A few moments later, the jets vanished as quickly as they had come, having brought the battle back with them to brigade headquarters. Screams and low, pain-filled moans rose from those who had been wounded.

Willi, Leibnitz, and the Frenchman picked themselves up, brushing off the dirt and grass. As the men around them tried to regain control of the battle, Cambon declared, “We will not commit the 5th Armored without knowing more about the enemy positions north of Swiecie. It would be suicide to send more units into the same ambush.”

The Frenchman pointed to the map. “Here. Take your 20th Brigade and probe northward. Once you’ve pinpointed the enemy concentrations, we will decide whether to attack or bypass them.”

Leibnitz stiffened. “Impossible. The 20th is only at half-strength. That’s why we didn’t use it in the attack. It’s out of position as well.” His voice rose to a challenge. “Why waste precious hours shifting my last brigade when you have a full-strength French division, ready and waiting, with their motors running. Send it through the gap.”

Cambon sniffed. “Ridiculous. The corps’ plan is quite clear, General Leibnitz. ‘The exploitation force will be committed only after the 7th Panzer has secured the breach,’” he quoted. “It’s clear your men were not up to the task. I told the general that you Germans were fit only for garrison troops.”

That did it. Willi von Seelow’s eyes flashed and he nodded.

“True. In the last war we garrisoned Paris, Lyons, Cherbourg…”

Astonishingly, Leibnitz grinned.

“I won’t stand here and listen to this!” Cambon spluttered.

“Then leave,” replied Leibnitz calmly. “We’ve fought hard, and taken the losses to prove it. Those losses were justified only if the attack succeeded.” He stood close to the Frenchman, almost nose-to-nose. “And it won’t succeed now, not without help that you French bastards are unwilling to give. If that is true, then this battle, this war, is not worth the loss of another German soldier.”

Evidently shocked by the sudden turn of events, Cambon strode off. Once the Frenchman was out of earshot, Leibnitz turned to face von Seelow, his anger already sliding back to sadness. “Pull your troops back to the start line, Willi, and pass the order to Major Schisser as well. There’s good defensive terrain. We’ll reorganize there, and begin planning a fighting retreat, all the way back to Germany if need be.”

In one part of Poland at least, the Franco-German alliance was dead.