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,
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,
