the Polish 11th Mech. You may remember him. We were at Irwin together.”
Reynolds nodded. He remembered Irizarri very well. Of middling height, the dark-haired liaison officer seemed to pack enough energy into his frame for a much taller man. He wore Polish battle dress, but with American rank insignia, and he carried an American-made Ingram submachine gun. While Colby’s and Marino’s gear looked neat and fresh, Irizarri’s was worn — not slovenly, but he’d definitely been in the field for a long time.
The last time Mike Reynolds had seen Ferdinand Irizarri up close, the man had been serving as the executive officer of the OPFQR battalion at Fort Irwin, the army’s National Training Center. The OPFOR unit specialized in using Soviet gear and Soviet-style tactics against regular battalions like the 3/187th rotating in for advanced tactical training. They were good, very good. Low-powered lasers, blanks, and small explosive charges used as artillery simulators took the place of real bullets and shells, but everything else was kept as close to real combat as possible. Harsh experience in Korea and Vietnam had taught the American military to train hard and train often. Combat leaders and troops were supposed to make their basic mistakes in front of Fort Irwin’s unforgiving evaluators — not in a real war.
He led them toward the chow line. “So now you’re working with the Poles, Colonel?”
Irizarri nodded. “I’ve been here for two months, getting the 11th ready for the transition to U.S. tactics and equipment. The war caught us just a few months short of trading in the Soviet gear. Now I’m the link between their fighting style and ours.”
Colby and Marino had brought Irizarri back to coordinate the withdrawal of the 314th. Its escape route, once the EurCon pressure grew too great, lay right through the middle of Alpha Company’s position. The movement of one unit through another, called a passage of lines, was always dangerous. First, because it could be tough to identify the incoming unit as friend or foe, and second, because there was always a risk that the two formations would get tangled up in each other, so that instead of two combat-ready units, you wound up with one disordered mess.
“We’ve been up ahead getting the exact picture,” Colby announced as they ate. “I wish I could send all the battalion’s officers up there, but there’s no time. I’ll tell you this, though.” He leaned forward a little, emphasizing his point. “You are going to see some beat-down soldiers come through here tomorrow morning. They need us.”
After finishing the quick meal and briefly touring Alpha Company’s defenses, Colby was done. He had two more companies to visit before it got too dark to see. But before climbing back into his Humvee, the 3/187th’s dapper commanding officer clapped Reynolds on the shoulder. “I like what I see, Mike. You’re on track. What’ll we do tomorrow when they come at us?”
Reynolds smiled. “Give ’em hell, sir.”
Willi von Seelow looked up from the map at the circle of tired, confident faces in front of him. “That’s it, then, gentlemen. Are there any questions?”
“No, Herr Oberstleutnant.” His battalion commanders and senior staff officers shook their heads in unison.
“Good.” Von Seelow slowly straightened to his full height, aware that the top of his head almost brushed against the shelter tent his headquarters troops had rigged between the brigade’s command vehicles. “Remember this: when we attack, we attack hard. Push your companies forward on a narrow front, using heavy smoke as a shield. Then find the Poles, fix them with firepower, and grind them under!”
They nodded, stiffened to attention, and then filed out, heading for their own command tanks and Marders.
Willi followed them outside and stood looking out across the darkened landscape in front of him. He was taking a big risk with this attack. Trying to conduct offensive operations at night invariably spawned serious command and control problems. Unable to see clearly, units got lost or blundered into each other. Friendly-fire incidents multiplied. As the surrounding darkness magnified fears and confused the senses, attacks could bog down without even encountering significant enemy resistance. Given all of that, he knew that many of his counterparts would have waited longer, at least until first light.
But von Seelow had his eyes on the clock, not on tactical perfection.
For the EurCon forces inside Poland, time was as much an enemy as the opposing soldiers waiting up the highway. Every day — no, every hour — they were delayed gave the Americans and British more time to land troops, tanks, artillery pieces, and combat helicopters at Gdansk. The first big seaborne convoys could only be days away at most.
Willi gritted his teeth. They should be closer to the port city than they were. Much closer. But routing the Poles out of the factories, chemical storage areas, and housing tracts around Bydgoszcz had taken far longer than it should have — thanks largely to what seemed the typical French reluctance to take casualties. He shook his head angrily. Again and again, Germany’s “allies” had relied on time-consuming artillery barrages and tiny, halfhearted attacks to drive the city’s defenders from their positions. They had gained ground, but slowly, so slowly. Twenty kilometers in two days! At that rate, the whole American army could reach Poland before he and his men caught even a glimpse of Gdansk’s skyline!
So, von Seelow thought bitterly, it was up to the 19th Panzergrenadier to kick the attack into high gear. As always. Well, he was getting tired of asking his soldiers to fight and die just to correct French mistakes.
He swallowed the anger, knowing it was unproductive now. They were committed. Instead, he ran over his attack plan one more time, looking for weaknesses or problems he’d overlooked earlier. He couldn’t find any. If the Polish defenses were as thin as his scouts reported, this sudden, sharp blow under the cover of darkness should break them wide open.
Willi squared his shoulders. Very well. He would shatter the Poles, regroup and refuel through the night, and push on through the gap at sunup. The brief pause should give his troops time to sort themselves after the inevitable confusion of a night battle without giving the Poles enough time to rebuild their defensive line.
Only one nagging worry remained. Where exactly were the Americans? Reliable reports said they had the better part of two divisions in Poland — the lightly armed 82nd and the 101st — but where in Poland? Without their photo recon and SIGINT satellites, France and Germany lacked any real ability to collect strategic intelligence. Even their air reconnaissance was spotty at best. As more and more U.S. and British warplanes joined the battle, fewer and fewer EurCon air recon missions were getting through to their targets.
As a result, educated guesses about enemy dispositions were all EurCon intelligence officers had to offer. And right now, their situation maps showed both American outfits still deployed around Gdansk and Gdynia, defending the area’s ports and airfields against a possible surprise attack by French or German airmobile units.
He hoped they were right about that. Of course, light infantry units were no real match for his Leopard and Marderarmed battalions, but they could slow him down.
Willi von Seelow stared out into the blackness ahead. Without firm intelligence, he and his brigade were fighting blind in more than one way.
Thunder roused Mike Reynolds from an uneasy sleep, the kind of hammering rumble that you get on the flat Texas plain during a summer storm. Then he remembered that he wasn’t in Texas.
“Heavy artillery fire to the southwest, Captain!” Corporal Adams shouted from the cluster of radios and telephones that kept them in touch with the rest of the battalion and brigade. “And heavy-duty jamming on all radio frequencies!”
Southwest. That was the Poles getting pummeled, then. Reynolds scrambled to his feet.
“First Platoon reports movement to their front!”
“On my way!” Reynolds sprinted out of the old stone barn they were using as a company CP, heading for the front. The sounds were changing — shifting from a distant rumbling to a staccato series of higher-pitched bursts. Tank fire. The Poles were under attack.
First Sergeant Ford was there ahead of him, waiting in a foxhole with Second Lieutenant John Caruso, the 1st Platoon’s young and inexperienced leader. Both men were scanning the ground ahead, using night-vision gear. Repeated flashes lit the horizon.
“What have you got?” Reynolds fought to keep his voice under control. Fear was always contagious.
“Six-plus tracks, advancing,” Ford answered, pointing out into the darkness.
One of the vehicles was moving a lot faster than the others, bouncing and rolling across the uneven ground
