Cauldron

CHAPTER 5 Peacekeepers

Lieutenant Colonel Wilhelm “Willi” von Seelow glanced out a headquarters building window at the brigade Kaserne.

The area was alive with men and vehicles. Detachments of soldiers in gray-green field uniforms milled around open armory doors collecting weapons and ammunition. Other parties stood in line, waiting their turn. All wore the dark green beret and silver crossed-rifles badge of Germany’s mechanized infantry, the panzergrenadiers.

The afternoon light, dimming as the sun set, was made grayer by a solid overcast sky. It fell on but did not illuminate the steel sides of tracked Marder APCs and the crumbling concrete walls of the brigade’s barracks and garages. The outside lights were already on, but it was still too early for them to do much to brighten a scene of military confusion.

The chaos outside was matched inside the brigade’s crowded operations room. Every phone was in use, and he could hear more than one officer demanding instant action in a strident tone, as if shouting made things work better. Von Seelow noticed one young captain who seemed to be doing most of the yelling. At least he could put a stop to that.

He called the man over, spoke softly and sharply to him, and then sent him on an errand out of the building. A little trip into the cold afternoon air should cool him off. More important, it would send a signal to the rest of the staff. Good soldiers stayed calm, even in the midst of crisis.

His reprimand had the desired effect. In the resulting quiet, von Seelow turned to his own work, trying hard to organize both his thoughts and the brigade. There was a lot to be done in an unreasonably short time.

They’d been galvanized into action by a sudden, hurry-up order from 7th Panzer Division’s headquarters in Munster: Mobilize the entire brigade immediately for civil peacekeeping duties. Von Seelow had taken the call himself once the duty officer convinced him it wasn’t a joke.

He frowned at the memory. Major Feist, at division headquarters, had managed to sound arrogant and worried at the same time. He’d also peremptorily brushed aside every one of Willi’s objections.

“No, Herr Oberstleutnant, I do mean the entire brigade. Yes, Herr Oberstleutnant, we are aware of your fuel situation. Yes, we know you are short of gear and men. I’m sorry, Herr Oberstleutnant, but we can’t spare you any troops ourselves. We’ve problems here as well. We need your brigade on the road to Dortmund by midnight. The situation is very bad. The anarchists are holed up in several vacant buildings.” Willi knew the ones he meant. Unemployed youths had taken them over several months ago, turning them into graffiti-sprayed fortresses. “They’re using them as bases for looting and burning much of the surrounding area, as well as fighting with rival gangs. The police are doing their best, but they’re outclassed.”

On that encouraging note, Feist had wished him luck and hung up.

Von Seelow knew the situation in Germany’s towns and cities was grim, but he hadn’t thought it was bad enough to warrant calling up regular army units.

A small chill ran down his back. Years ago, he’d served with Germany’s U.N. peacekeeping forces in Yugoslavia and had watched with horror as civil strife wrecked a nation. Separating the warring factions had cost the U.N. force hundreds of lives and billions of marks. It had been a months-long nightmare of frustrating patrolling, sudden, bloody ambushes, and the horrid experience of being hated and shot at by both sides. Now he was being told his own country might stand on the brink of a similar nightmare.

His combat experience had been useful to him, though. In any peacetime army, promotions were rare. He’d moved up from major to lieutenant colonel because he’d shown himself cool and utterly reliable under fire. And von Seelow knew that he couldn’t have gained promotion in any other way. His experience and training in the East German Army before the unification more than qualified him for his current rank, but “ossies,” those born in the East, were not popular in the unified Bundeswehr, the Federal German Army. Most of Willi’s former colleagues were back in civilian clothes or stuck in dead-end posts. The odds were that he’d join them in a few years. The “wessies” didn’t want too many tainted soldiers from the East in their army’s upper echelons.

Still, that might not be so bad. Soldiering wasn’t the honorable career it had once seemed. With the Russian bear apparently declawed, peacekeeping was turning into the Bundeswehr’s main job. At least half their training was devoted to “civil affairs,” and tactics learned the hard way in Zagreb and Sarajevo were spreading fast through the entire army. This emergency deployment to Dortmund was probably only a taste of things to come.

Riots and clashes with police were now almost routine in every city in Germany. Unemployment hovered near the twenty percent mark, climbing steadily as the economy wound down. The figures were even higher among the young. But unemployment wasn’t the only problem. Racial tensions were also rising rapidly as more and more Eastern European refugees evaded the border patrols — all fleeing economies that were in even worse shape.

Von Seelow shook his head. It was difficult to imagine anything that could be worse. Germany’s urban centers were the scene of daily pitched battles as a dangerous mix of right-wing fanatics, left-wing anarchists, and unemployed workers fought with each other, with police, and with shopkeepers. They wanted work and food, and both were scarce.

And he knew that food and work were bound to grow even more impossible to find if the nation’s trade unions carried out their insane threat to call a general strike. Even his country’s recent problems would pale in comparison during a wholesale work stoppage.

That seemed hard to believe. On his few excursions into Hamm, the nearest city, or to the Essen-Dortmund area, he had been shocked by the sight of ragged civilians wandering aimlessly or begging for small change or employment. Idle men and boarded-up shops lined the streets. Police barricades were commonplace, and the normal bustle of city life seemed weaker, more sullen. Certainly the government’s strict gasoline rationing program had something to do with that, but the real reason was the continent-wide recession.

Von Seelow had never seen it this bad back in Leipzig — even before the Wall fell. East Germany’s communist masters had known how to control things, he thought wryly. They’d kept the cost of bread low and made sure there’d been plenty to drink. Bread and circuses, Russian style. He pulled himself up short. Thinking about the past was a waste of time. Especially when East Germany’s “peace” had been purchased at such a high price. The newly unified federal republic might be wild and unruly, but at least it was still a democracy, still a nation one could be proud to serve.

He looked out the window again. It was darker, and a cold, swirling wind rattled the window glass. Temperatures were below average, with rain and wind that chilled the spirit as well as the body. Everyone predicted a cold winter. Willi knew it was going to be a hard one.

With difficulty, he turned his attention from his nation’s larger problems to more immediate concerns. He had less than six hours to turn a formation of 3,500 men and three hundred combat vehicles into a police force that could control a population instead of destroying it. The brigade had enough riot gear for only one of its two active-duty panzer-grenadier battalions. Now division wanted the entire brigade on the line — including its armored battalion and antitank company. How in God’s name are we supposed to arm them for police work? he thought. And what orders should they be given?

A sudden flurry at the door caught his eye, and von Seelow jumped to attention as Colonel Georg Bremer strode in. He had been called away from dinner at a friend’s house, twenty kilometers outside Ahlen.

Bremer, the 19th Panzergrenadier Brigade’s commanding officer, looked like a tanker. His dark hair belied his fifty-six years. Short, thick, solidly built, he moved quickly, and his officers had discovered that if you didn’t move just as fast, he rolled right over you.

The physical contrast between the colonel and von Seelow couldn’t have been any sharper. Willi was tall, almost too tall to serve in armored vehicles. His lean body was matched by a lean, square-jawed face. High cheekbones, deep blue eyes, and short blond hair just starting to go gray made him a living reminder of an aristocratic past that Germany had tried to leave behind.

Bremer headed straight for von Seelow, nodding to the rest of his staff. “Seats, gentlemen.”

Von Seelow remained standing. As the 19th’s operations officer, he was responsible for the brigade’s readiness. It was now being put to a sore test.

“Any word on Oberstleutnant Greif?” Greif was the brigade’s executive officer, and normally would run things in Bremer’s absence. Tonight, though, he was on leave, moving his family out of Essen to the countryside.

“We think he’s on the road, sir. We’ve asked the police to watch for him, but he isn’t supposed to even check in until tomorrow morning.”

The colonel sighed and said, “All right, that makes you acting executive officer.” Bremer looked him squarely in the eye. “Where do we stand, Willi?”

Von Seelow knew each battalion’s status by heart. “The 191st will be ready to move by midnight, but it’s only at fifty percent strength. The 192nd is about the same. We are having some problems with the 194th’s fuel supply, but we’re getting that sorted out. The tanks should be ready to roll in time. The 195th Artillery has been co-opted by Division in Munster. Apparently their own military police units have already been committed to police duties and they need men to provide security for the headquarters.”

Bremer listened closely and then nodded, a quick movement. “That’s unfortunate, but we shouldn’t need the guns tonight. What are you doing about our missing men?”

That was a good question.

All of the brigade’s battalions were badly understrength. Ending conscription had helped reconcile Germany’s neighbors to its reunification, but it had played hell with its armed forces. Budget cuts made recruiting difficult. Military pay was poor, the living conditions awful. None of their units were at more than seventy-five percent of authorized manning.

Hard times had also caused many of the soldiers to take second jobs, working nights, or looking for work, after their duties were finished in the afternoon. Many of the men now needed for action were fanned out across a wide area, from Essen to Dortmund to Gutersloh, trying to augment their anemic paychecks. It was against regulations, but Bremer and von Seelow had both turned a blind eye to the practice. Their men had families to care for.

Von Seelow had also authorized a lot of emergency leaves for soldiers in the brigade. Those men were trying to move their families out of Dortmund or Essen or cities further away. The large cities offered a better chance for work, but the smaller villages had food and were safer.

With a little warning from Division, just a few hours more, he could have had virtually every man in the brigade ready to move. The alert, though, hadn’t come until five-thirty, when too many men had already left the post. Put simply, the late afternoon call had caught them completely off guard.

“We have detachments from each company making sweeps through the local villages, rounding up stragglers. I’ve also passed word to the police to send any soldiers they find back to us.” He cleared his throat. “In addition, I’ve called the local TV and radio stations, but they’re unwilling to air the request unless we tell them why we’re mobilizing.”

Bremer made a face. The last thing he was willing to do was tell a civilian his orders or intentions. He waited for von Seelow to finish.

“To make up some of the shortfall, I recommend stripping all personnel from the headquarters and tank-hunter companies. Putting them in the grenadier battalions will help bring us closer to full strength. We need men for riot duty, not logistical support or antitank missiles.”

Bremer agreed. “True. Also, take men out of two of the tank companies. We shouldn’t need more than one company of armor for this kind of work. Call the commanders and tell them what’s going on while S-1 figures out how to apportion the extra troops.”

Von Seelow nodded in acknowledgment as Bremer glanced at the clock. It was six forty-five. “Give me a status report at 2100 hours. I’m calling Division. I’m going to find out what’s behind this business, and it better not be some kind of drill.” He grinned suddenly, including the staff in his gaze. “Maybe we can find out what idiot came up with this order and put him in the lead vehicle.”

After the colonel disappeared into his office, von Seelow started making calls. Most of the battalion commanders, trying to solve their own problems, simply took the new personnel assignments in stride and rang off. The commanding officer of the 192nd, though, made it clear that he liked his new orders about as much as he liked foreigners, which included former East Germans. In other words, not at all.

“I need trained infantrymen. What the hell am I supposed to do with tank gunners and vehicle drivers?” argued Lieutenant Colonel Klaus von Olden.

Willi wanted to tell him exactly what he could do with them, but held his temper. “Use them as you see fit, Herr Oberstleutnant.”

Like von Seelow’s, von Olden’s ancestors had been Prussian nobles, but his family had escaped to the West when Germany was divided at the end of World War II. Willi was proud of his heritage, but a lifetime in the “classless” East had taught him to keep a low profile. His father, once a colonel in the Wehrmacht, had even dropped the aristocratic “von” from the family’s name — becoming plain Hans Seelow, day laborer.

Von Olden, on the other hand, was as arrogant as if his obsolete title still held meaning. He’d even gone so far as to paint his family’s ancestral crest on his command vehicle. He was proud of his “Germanic” blood, and very vocal about his dislike of immigrants or anything smacking of the political left.

Von Olden’s arrogant voice taunted him. “With your broad experience in suppressing civilians at home and abroad, I was hoping you would have some suggestions.”

Controlling his temper, Willi ignored the remark. He’d heard worse. “With these additions, how many men will you be able to field by midnight?”

“We should be close to seventy percent.” The other man sounded faintly disappointed. He’d obviously hoped his insult would draw a less temperate reaction.

“Very well. Good evening.” Willi hung up, trying not to slam the phone down. In truth, von Olden’s remark had hit a little too close to home. In the GDR, army units had been used to suppress civil disturbances, often brutally. The federal republic’s Justice Ministry was still trying to sort out criminal cases against border guards who’d shot their own countrymen as they tried to climb the Wall.

Several hours later, von Seelow and Bremer stood next to their command vehicle. They were parked near the main gate to the Kaserne, watching trucks and Marder armored fighting vehicles roll out into the night. Bright lights now banished the darkness, spotlighting each vehicle as it roared out of the compound and turned onto the main road. It was eleven forty-five, and the first elements of the 19th Panzergrenadier Brigade were on the road for Dortmund.

A cold, damp wind gusted around them, carrying the stink of diesel exhaust. Even in their winter-weather gear they could feel it. It might rain or even sleet tonight. Driving conditions would be bad, but maybe the foul weather would dampen any disturbances.

“Good work, Willi, very good.” Bremer smiled as the vehicles roared by. Von Seelow appreciated the remark, but it didn’t lift his black mood. Even a glowing fitness report from Bremer would never get him another promotion. Skill and experience would only carry him so far up the ladder. After that his East German birth would stop him cold.

Besides, did he want to serve in an army that operated only against its own citizens? He loved the outdoors, being in the field. But no soldier loved urban combat, and a near civil war would be the dirtiest of fighting. He missed field maneuvers, where the enemy was well defined. That reminded him of something.

“Sir, you know what this deployment is doing to our fuel allowance. We were cutting back on exercises before this. I’ll have to look at the figures when we’re done, but we may have to restructure Cold Dragon.” Held each winter, after the crops were harvested and the ground had frozen, the exercise was the culmination of months of planning and smaller training exercises. It was the only chance the brigade got to exercise as a unit during the year.

“Tear up the training plan, Willi, and throw it away.” Bremer met von Seelow’s surprised look with a secretive gaze. He glanced at his watch. “In twelve minutes the government is going to declare martial law throughout Germany. The French are doing the same thing. I think we’re going to be busy in the streets for a long time to come.”

Von Seelow nodded numbly. He’d been afraid of that. Germany’s army was going to war — a war waged against fellow Germans.

Following Bremer’s lead, he climbed into a jeep, eschewing the warmer but clumsier tracked command vehicle. It would bring up the rear, collecting vehicles that broke down or were lost.

Willi would much rather be in the lead jeep. Its radios crackled with last-minute orders and reports, keeping von Seelow so busy that he hardly noticed the convoy pulling onto Bundestrasse 58. A thin, cold rain started falling, spattering in wind-driven sheets against headlights and windshields.

They reached Dortmund’s outskirts at two-thirty in the morning, but they’d seen the orange glow of fires flickering against the pitch-black sky for the past half hour. It would be a long night and an even longer day.

The Oder River valley lay shrouded in a thick, slowly swirling mist. Trees and houses on the far bank were almost invisible. Even the twin railroad and highway bridges spanning the river seemed to hang suspended in midair — massive structures of steel and concrete floating above the gray, obscuring fog.

Major General Jerzy Novachik lowered his binoculars, thick, bushy eyebrows crinkling as he frowned. This weather was damned odd. Poland’s autumn months were usually marked by a steady succession of cool, crisp, and clear days. But not this year. They were getting late November’s freezing rains and bone-chilling fogs a month early. He shivered and pulled his brown uniform greatcoat tighter around his shoulders.

The sound of a hastily stifled sneeze made him turn around. “God bless you, Andrzej.”

“Thank you, sir.” The colonel commanding his mechanized infantry regiment wiped his nose quickly and stuffed a handkerchief away out of sight.

Novachik studied him for a moment. The man looked cold, wet, and thoroughly miserable. That wasn’t particularly surprising. After all, the colonel and his troops had spent the better part of the last two days out in the open — huddled in shallow fighting positions by day and trying to sleep inside their cramped, unheated vehicles by night.

He glanced toward the woods stretching north and south along low hills rising above the valley. Even this close, it was difficult to see the bulky, menacing shapes of BMP-1s and T-72 tanks waiting motionless beneath autumn-colored camouflage netting. The regiment’s antitank missile teams, machine gunners, and riflemen were completely concealed. Still, a trained observer would eventually spot them all, and know that Poland’s defenders were awake, alert, and ready for battle.

Novachik smiled grimly. That was exactly the message he wanted to send the Germans across the river.

The Bundeswehr’s powerful divisions might be busy knocking heads together in Germany’s restive cities right now, but only a fool would think that guaranteed Poland’s peace. Throughout human history, too many governments had tried to blind their citizens to troubles at home with promises of quick, almost bloodless foreign conquests.

So Jerzy Novachik and his shivering but determined soldiers waited on the river’s edge — deployed as a powerful sign to Germany’s problem-plagued rulers that a new war with Poland would be bloody, not bloodless.

He only hoped they would heed the warning.