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.
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
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
