path for the panzer brigades behind them.
At last, he laid down his pen and stood back — satisfied that the attack plan he’d drawn up was the best one possible under the circumstances. He looked up at his operations chief. “See anything I’ve missed, Major?”
Thiessen shook his head. “No, Herr Oberstleutnant.”
Around them, the headquarters bustled with final preparations for the new attack. For the better part of two days now, the 7th Panzer Division had been feinting at a strongly defended part of the American line, near Bladzim. It was good tank country, and a logical route of attack. An understrength battalion from one of the 7th’s other brigades had been ordered to look like a division, and had done a good job of it.
Meanwhile, von Seelow’s troops had another target.
A stir outside the command vehicle attracted his attention, and he stepped out to see Leibnitz arriving, along with a French brigadier general whose narrow face seemed locked in a disdainful sneer. Willi scowled, but only inside, not where the Frenchman could see it. He recognized the man: Cambon, operations officer for the II Corps.
After exchanging salutes, Leibnitz asked him. “Any last-minute problems, Willi?”
Von Seelow shook his head. “No, sir. Everything is in order. My battalions are moving toward their start lines now.”
“I hope you understand the importance of this attack, Colonel,” urged Cambon. Addressing both officers, the Frenchman continued, “I will be candid. General Montagne had grave concerns about allowing this unit to play such a critical role after its earlier failures.”
Willi fought down an urge of his own — an urge to smash the French staff officer in the face. Clearly the rear-echelon drones at corps had never forgiven him for threatening to turn his guns against the fleeing French 5th Armored back at the Warta or for short-circuiting their elaborate plans to cross the Notec by grabbing his own bridge at Rynarzewo.
Leibnitz must have seen the anger on Willi’s face because he broke in before he could reply. “I have reviewed Colonel von Seelow’s plan and it is a very good one. The colonel’s grasp of tactics is excellent, and it is his right to lead this attack.”
“As you wish, General.” Cambon turned away, apparently utterly uninterested in discussing the matter any further. He sauntered toward a group of officers clustered around a map.
Von Seelow’s eyes narrowed. If II Corps was so worried about this attack succeeding, Montagne should have met more of his requests for fire support. Instead, outside of a few scraps, this was an all-German operation. Given that, it seemed obvious that the French corps commander planned to let his German “allies” pay the blood price necessary to rip a hole in the American lines. Then, if they succeeded, the rest of II Corps stood ready to pour through the gap. The French would take Gdansk, and all the credit with it.
Leibnitz moved after the Frenchman.
Willi sighed, but again only on the inside. Having the division CO looking over your shoulder was a mixed blessing. You knew you were the
the spearhead, but the old man got to see your every move, right and wrong. And what about the Frenchman? What kind of report was he going to make? And to whom?
Von Seelow shrugged, suddenly too fatalistic to give a damn. This was a make-or-break attack. Enemy resources were stretched to the limit, and this time he was sure there was no second defensive line. A breach would lead into an empty rear.
If his plan worked, the 7th Panzer had a chance to reach Gdansk itself, shut off the flow of reinforcements, and end the war in victory. If the attack failed, what Leibnitz or the
French thought of him wouldn’t matter, because they wouldn’t be able to win at all.
They heard the artillery first, a dull booming off in the distance. Without a word spoken, Reynolds ran for the CP. Around them Polish and American soldiers raced to take up their firing positions or man their vehicles.
The Poles were the remnants of the 314th Mechanized Regiment, assigned to brigade reserve along with Alpha Company. Commanded by Major Miroslaw Prazmo, the twenty-odd armored vehicles were a poor match for the armored corps bearing down on them. It was all the armor they had.
Sergeant Andy Ford and Prazmo were already at the CP, just hanging up the field phone. “No news from Brigade. They’re checking up the line to Division.”
The Polish major cocked his head, listening for a moment. The barrage continued, sounding like thunder, but far too even, too steady. “That is not a skirmish, Captain. I must see to my men.” The short, dark-haired tanker hurried away.
The company CP was in a small equipment shed on the outskirts of town, facing south. Biala, a small farming hamlet about ten kilometers north-northeast of Swiecie, had been their home for almost two days now. The front had been quiet for all that time, crashing against the 101st, then ebbing back, and gathering strength. The Word was that the enemy would try again soon. The question was where.
Reynolds, Ford, and Corporal Adams, his radioman, moved to the doorway, scanning the landscape to the west. Silently they listened to the pounding artillery fire, literally trying to pull information out of the air.
Ford, speculating, said, “It sounds like they’re hitting Bladzim.”
Reynolds nodded absentmindedly as he studied his map. “If the Germans punch through there, we’ll have to move fast or we might be cut off.” The problem was, of course, that Colby and the men above him would be the ones who decided when Alpha Company moved. The idea that his fate was not in his own hands was something that Reynolds accepted, but he didn’t have to like it.
He fidgeted, wanting to do something, but no real action was required. Someone else was taking the heat this time, and he resigned himself to a long morning of waiting and listening — trying to sort out what was happening from confusing and fragmentary radio and telephone messages.
A new set of explosions hammered the Polish countryside, but this time close, so close that for a moment his surprised mind chided the Germans for being so far off target. A fraction of a second later, he realized his men
He rushed outside in time to see pointed shapes curving around to the west, and billowing brown-black smoke clouds roiling over Biala, some of them over his own troops’ positions.
Seconds after seeing the planes, Reynolds heard the now-familiar sound of incoming artillery — big stuff. He dove to the ground, hugging the outside of the shed.
A rippling chain of explosions seemed to tear apart the ground itself, but trailed off after a few volleys. Reynolds raised himself to his knees, scanning the area. Now Major Prazmo’s Poles were being hit, he judged. He hoped they were all under armor.
He could hear more artillery, too, distant, but not that distant. What was going on? This didn’t fit in with an attack on Bladzim.
He scrambled back inside the CP. Ford’s face was grim, and said more than the words did. He seemed reluctant to speak.
“Report,” ordered Reynolds.
“Second Platoon’s been hit hard, Captain.” The sergeant’s clipped tone was heavy with loss. “Those were cluster bombs, and a stick landed square on top of ‘em. Three killed, about ten wounded. Lieutenant Riley is dead. Two of the wounded need immediate medevac. And one of the Humvees is a total write-off, along with the antitank missiles it carried.”
Reynolds’s chest suddenly felt tight and ice-cold. That one German air strike had just killed or wounded more of his men than he’d lost in the whole of Alpha Company’s first battle. What could he have done differently? Probably nothing, but he wasn’t sure he believed it. What should he do now? Deaths were a part of combat, but these were his men. He tried to push the questions to the back of his mind. There were still things to do.
When they called to organize the medevac, they got the word: the brigade was being hit, hard. Armored vehicles were pouring out of the woods to their front, while a storm of artillery and air strikes pounded their positions. Radars and radios were jammed. There was no question. The Germans were going to try again, harder and faster than before.
