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.
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.
