Cauldron

Brigade.”

The corporal nodded and reached for the equipment, but warned, “Jamming’s heavy, sir. I already tried to do a check once.” He had to shout to make himself heard over the artillery fire.

“Do it again, and do it until you get through. I need contact, bad.”

Adams nodded and picked up the handset.

Braving the shells still screaming in, Reynolds darted from tree to tree, locating each of his platoon leaders. Together, they picked spots for the antitank missile launchers. The Javelins were the only long-range weapon he had, and he wanted them well sited. All six had to cover the highway. Each squad also had AT-4 rocket launchers, shorter-range and with a lighter punch. They had to hit a tank from the rear or flank to have any chance of killing it.

“Here they come!” A Javelin gunner pointed toward the open fields separating them from smoke-shrouded Swiecie. Camouflaged vehicles were visible now, emerging from the haze and moving northeast on either side of the highway — right toward them.

The enemy movement caught Reynolds while he was conferring with Ford and Lieutenant Caruso, the 1st Platoon’s leader. He dashed back across the highway at full speed, heading for his CP. His men were still trying to sort themselves out. Half were clearing brush or other obstacles for the antitank missile crews while the rest dug “hasty positions,” scrapes in the ground that barely hid your body. Soldiers often called them “shallow graves.”

Adams looked up as he skidded through the thin screen of brush surrounding the CP and dropped prone. “I got Brigade, Captain, and I’ve told them where we and the Poles are.”

“Great! Good work.” The corporal had also scraped out holes for both of them, and Reynolds rolled into his, frantically opening his map. He studied it, marking points and noting the coordinates. “Get me Brigade again.”

A first muffled whumph told him his Javelins were firing. The first wave of Germans must be just under two thousand meters away. Adams handed him the radio.

“I have an urgent fire mission, tanks in the open, coordinates one seven nine, two five six.” He raised himself up high enough to see, scanning the area with binoculars. “Target is forty-plus tanks and APCs, more stuff in the distance.”

Even as he counted the German vehicles, a small cloud puffed over one and it exploded — ignited by a Javelin missile. More missiles flashed across the open ground, but with only six launchers, they could only kill a few of the enemy at a time.

The German Leopards and Marders kept coming — thundering across the fields at full speed. Reynolds swore. This wasn’t a careful advance by bounds, just an old-fashioned cavalry charge. And against his ill-prepared infantry and Prazmo’s too-few tanks, it just might work, too.

Smoothbore 125mm guns barked from his right. The Poles were shooting now. The deep crack of tank fire was much more rapid than his own missile fire, but the tanks were hitting the Leopard 2s head-on, where their advanced armor was thickest. Prazmo’s BMP infantry fighting vehicles carried wire-guided antitank missiles, but they were an older type that couldn’t penetrate the front armor on the German tanks.

Few of the German tanks were firing yet. They could see little among the trees, even with thermal sights, and they were at maximum range for their 120mm guns, even with a stabilized turret.

Burning Leopards dotted the wheat fields now — maybe eight or ten of them. That was good shooting. But not good enough. The first elements of the German advance had closed to within a thousand meters. Marders packed with infantry followed right behind.

Polish T-72s and BMPs began going up in flames — hit by return fire from the Leopards. Machine guns and 25mm cannon mounted on the Marders chattered, tearing limbs, bark, and leaves off the trees. Reynolds flattened himself inside his shallow foxhole. The enemy APCs were trying to suppress his missile teams.

Whammm. Whammm. Whammm.

Dirt fountained skyward among the advancing Germans. Reynolds grabbed the mike again. “On target! On target! Fire for effect!”

More shells fell, exploding about five hundred meters to his front. The barrage wouldn’t kill many tanks, but it might slow them down. Even better, the deadly hail of fragments whining outward from each blast ought to keep the panzer commanders buttoned up and half-blind. The artillery fire should also pin the German panzergrenadiers inside their Marders until they, too, were in among the trees and shadows.

While the battle raged ahead, Reynolds continued to work with the map, passing new coordinates back to brigade — walking the barrage north in time with the advancing Germans. Several more Leopards and Marders were hit and wrecked, but it was clear that the attackers would reach the woods with a sizable force. That was bad. What was worse was that it was already too late for Alpha Company to retreat.

When the first Leopards were just two hundred meters away, the enemy artillery fire slackened. Fearful of hitting their own men, the German gunners had stopped flaying the woods. At this range, the tanks were immense and he felt an urge to run building inside him, but knew that would be suicidal. More important, he would be letting his men down. Men who were counting on him to bring them safely home.

Suddenly the Germans were inside the woods.

“Cover!” A burst of fire scythed the air right over his head and the crack-boom of a close explosion shoved him into the ground.

Spitting out blood and dirt, Reynolds looked up from his hole at a German Marder only fifty meters away. The APC was pointed off to their left.

The tracked vehicle was steeply sloped in the front, but boxy and high in the rear where it carried its squad of infantry. A clumsy-looking turret on the top held a 25mm cannon, a launcher for antitank missiles, and a thermal imager.

The Marder’s turret was slewed in their direction, but aimed over their heads. The gunner must have fired a suppressive burst in their direction on general principles, but now the barrel moved slightly from side to side as he searched for real targets. Its rear ramp fell open and German soldiers in camouflage gear poured outside. Some were already firing their assault rifles from the hip, pumping rounds into 2nd Platoon’s positions.

Still prone, Reynolds grabbed his M16 and opened up. Adams did the same thing, firing in short, aimed bursts. Although that turret pointing their way was intimidating, the shot was too good to pass up. Besides, the panzergrenadiers would spot them at any moment.

One man went down instantly — knocked off his feet by two or three hits. Another screamed and slid backward against the Marder, clutching a face that had been torn apart. The rest went to ground, flattening themselves behind tree trunks or in the tall grass beside the APC.

The instant the Germans disappeared, Reynolds and Adams also dove for cover — just in time. A 25mm burst rippled overhead and exploded behind them, showering them with dirt and bits of wood. The autocannon dipped lower, still firing.

Whooosh.

An antitank missile visible only as a streak of light from the left hit the Marder in the side. Sparks flew out from the point of impact, and part of the explosion inside vented out through the vehicle’s open troop compartment. Moments later, a ball of gray-white smoke cloaked the APC — luridly lit from inside by the flames consuming its fuel and ammunition.

A few more German troops appeared, bailing out of the vehicle — trying to get clear of the flames. Reynolds and his RTO shot at them, but their targets vanished in the smoke, apparently unscathed.

Firing surrounded them on all sides, mixed with sounds of diesel engines. Clouds of exhaust, woodsmoke, and dust cut visibility to almost nothing, allowing only glimpses of the combat. Inside the smoke, bright flashes of light marked a weapon firing or a vehicle being hit. Forms moved through the trees, firing, running, falling.

A storm of gunfire from their left drew the two men, and crouching almost double, they ran in the direction of 2nd Platoon’s positions. A crashing roar from the right turned into a German tank, breaking through a thicket of small trees. They threw themselves back behind a tree, watching helplessly as the armored behemoth passed close by and then rumbled into the murk.

“Shit!” Reynolds whipped around as bullets snapped past his face. There were five German infantrymen following the Leopard. Muzzle flashes stabbed out of the smoke. He snapped his M16 up and squeezed off a long burst, but recoil pulled the barrel up, and his shots went wild. The bolt clicked on an empty chamber.

He rolled right, trying to get behind the tree while frantically fumbling for a new magazine. Too late, his mind screamed. The Germans would be on top of him in a fraction of a second.