Kelly grinned. “Thought you boys might need some help, so our guys worked all last night to get their gear unpacked and then marched like bats out of hell to get here on time. But we’re it for now. The rest of the division’s still back on the docks.”
Still scarcely able to believe it, Reynolds quickly passed the word, sending runners from his 2nd and 3rd platoons back to bring Kelly’s tanks forward. Within minutes, the Alpha Company soldiers reappeared, four-tank platoons following behind like monstrous pets. Reynolds spent the time keeping his people clear of the lumbering machines, at the same time deploying riflemen and machine-gun teams into the gaps between the tank platoons. There weren’t many of them left. Fewer than half the soldiers he’d taken into battle were still on their feet.
Out in the open, he watched as German tanks and APCs maneuvered, dodging the near-continuous missile fire. Their once-neat formations were now spotted with burning vehicles, while smoke grenades popped, obscuring parts of the attacking brigade with puffs of gray-white vapor.
Around him, dozens of M1A2 tanks took position in an uneven line. The high, thin whine of their turbine engines filled the woods. There was so much commotion that Reynolds was worried that the Germans might spot them, but experience told him otherwise. The trees would conceal the American tanks, at least until they fired. After that it wouldn’t matter.
Reynolds was standing near one company commander’s tank, trying to hurriedly coordinate a fire plan, when the officer straightened up in his turret hatch. He listened to a voice in his headphones and replied, “Estimate seven hundred. We haven’t lased.” After another pause, he acknowledged the order he’d received with a quick “Roger.”
“They aren’t waiting for the rest!” he called down to Reynolds. “Are your people clear?”
Reynolds nodded. “They’d better be — ”
An ear-splitting
Out in the track-torn wheat fields, the oncoming brigade suddenly blossomed with gray-black flowers. Where the shells found their mark, and at least two-thirds had, German armor burned.
He barely had time to recover from the first blast when a second followed, almost in unison. The shock waves were knocking him off balance, and he dropped prone rather than get slammed off his feet.
The third volley was much more ragged as faster loaders and better-coordinated crews outpaced their counterparts. By the fourth, the firing had become a continuous roar.
Caught at short range in the open, the Germans, who had been expecting the woods to be clear, instead ran into a hail of tank-killing fire. At half a klick, the Abrams’ 120mm shells had more than enough killing power to rip through a Leopard 2 tank, or literally dismantle a thin-skinned Marder. While the Americans were in firing positions that allowed them to see and shoot out, all the Germans had to shoot at were half-concealed shapes. They had only three options: kill the enemy, find cover, or die.
A few of the Leopards tried to return fire — sending sabot rounds crashing through the trees in front of them. Most missed, and few of the German tanks had time for a second shot. Almost as soon as it started, though, the volume of fire fell away. The Leopards and Marders died or went to ground.
Reynolds raised his head, still in shock. Three minutes of firing had been enough to stop the German brigade cold. Through his binoculars, he counted thirty dead tanks and as many APCs — slewed crazily at all angles amid the flattened wheat. There were no signs of life or movement. EurCon’s grand attack had been stopped.
No, he thought coldly, more than stopped. The Germans who’d come storming across those fields so boldly had been butchered. It would be a long time before the bastards recovered from this disastrous attack.
Alpha Company had held just long enough.
Half-deafened, Reynolds stood slowly and shook himself, like a man coming out of the water. Voices and engine noises replaced the silence, and he slowly began to realize that nobody was going to shoot at him in the immediate future.
As he gathered what was left of his company and set about finding out what Brigade wanted him to do, the roar of jet engines through the sky brought fear back up his throat again. A glance upward, though, showed them to be American and Polish planes, loaded with bombs and headed southwest. Flight after flight screamed overhead, hugging the earth on the way to their targets.
EurCon had reached its high-water mark. Now the tide was turning.
The steady flood of damaged tanks and horribly wounded men filtering back from Swiecie told its own story of defeat and despair, but radioed reports confirmed the worst.
Von Seelow put down the handset and looked at Leibnitz. His face was pale. “That was Major Schisser. Colonel Baum is dead, along with most of the 21st Panzer. The highway north is blocked by large numbers of tanks and missile vehicles. Our men came under intense fire just short of the woods.” He swallowed hard. “Casualties are very heavy — at least forty percent, probably much more.”
Leibnitz’s face was a mask of shock and repressed sorrow. Willi knew that the division commander and Baum had been friends for a long time. More telling than that was the destruction of the 21st Panzer Brigade — the follow on force for his own decimated command. Minutes before, Baum’s Leopards and Marders had been the leading edge of the German breakthrough, actually passing through the breach and headed full speed up the highway. Near full strength and unengaged, they should have been able to crush anything the Americans or the Poles could throw in their path. Instead, they were strewn across the open countryside — wrecked and on fire.
Beside the 7th Panzer’s stricken leader, General Cambon exclaimed, “Those woods were supposed to be clear!” He turned to face von Seelow. “Your brigade reported overrunning the American infantry there. Obviously your incompetent fools missed something.”
Sneering openly now, he challenged the two Germans. “Well, what will you do now?”
Willi set his teeth.
Leibnitz asked, “Is General Montagne willing to commit the exploitation force? We can keep the breach open…”
“Down!” Major Thiessen screamed.
The staff officer’s warning barely preceded the roar of enemy aircraft streaking low overhead. Bombs and cluster munitions tumbled off wing racks. Explosions rippled through the brigade area. Thick, choking smoke billowed over von Seelow and the others as they hugged the grass.
A few moments later, the jets vanished as quickly as they had come, having brought the battle back with them to brigade headquarters. Screams and low, pain-filled moans rose from those who had been wounded.
Willi, Leibnitz, and the Frenchman picked themselves up, brushing off the dirt and grass. As the men around them tried to regain control of the battle, Cambon declared, “We will not commit the 5th Armored without knowing more about the enemy positions north of Swiecie. It would be suicide to send more units into the same ambush.”
The Frenchman pointed to the map. “Here. Take your 20th Brigade and probe northward. Once you’ve pinpointed the enemy concentrations, we will decide whether to attack or bypass them.”
Leibnitz stiffened. “Impossible. The 20th is only at half-strength. That’s why we didn’t use it in the attack. It’s out of position as well.” His voice rose to a challenge. “Why waste precious hours shifting my last brigade when you have a full-strength French division, ready and waiting, with their motors running. Send it through the gap.”
Cambon sniffed. “Ridiculous. The corps’ plan is quite clear, General Leibnitz. ‘The exploitation force will be committed only after the 7th Panzer has secured the breach,’” he quoted. “It’s clear your men were not up to the task. I told the general that you Germans were fit only for garrison troops.”
That did it. Willi von Seelow’s eyes flashed and he nodded.
“True. In the last war we garrisoned Paris, Lyons, Cherbourg…”
Astonishingly, Leibnitz grinned.
“I won’t stand here and listen to this!” Cambon spluttered.
“Then leave,” replied Leibnitz calmly. “We’ve fought hard, and taken the losses to prove it. Those losses were justified only if the attack succeeded.” He stood close to the Frenchman, almost nose-to-nose. “And it won’t succeed now, not without help that you French bastards are unwilling to give. If that is true, then this battle, this war, is not worth the loss of another German soldier.”
Evidently shocked by the sudden turn of events, Cambon strode off. Once the Frenchman was out of earshot,
