Leibnitz turned to face von Seelow, his anger already sliding back to sadness. “Pull your troops back to the start line, Willi, and pass the order to Major Schisser as well. There’s good defensive terrain. We’ll reorganize there, and begin planning a fighting retreat, all the way back to Germany if need be.”
In one part of Poland at least, the Franco-German alliance was dead.
CHAPTER 36
Pressure Points
Unwilling to believe what he’d just read, Nicolas Desaix stared down at the message form he held crumpled in his hand. He looked up at Michel Guichy. “Montagne is sure of this?”
“Yes, very sure,” the Defense Minister growled. “This man Leibnitz and his subordinates have refused all of II Corps’ orders to renew the attack. They’ve even abandoned all the ground gained this morning. They may be preparing to fall back further.”
“
Guichy shrugged. “Who knows? II Corps controls all land-line communications access to the 7th Panzer, but the Germans do have radios.”
“Damn.” By rights, the German Chancellor and his cabinet ministers should be equally appalled by their panzer division’s refusal to obey EurCon orders. Unfortunately Desaix was no longer sure he could predict Heinz Schraeder’s reactions. Russia’s state television had begun broadcasting reports of Kaminov’s secret negotiations with France. Since then, Berlin’s willingness to accept French political and military advice had perceptibly diminished. And in recent telephone conversations, Schraeder’s tone had grown notably tepid, even cold.
Another troubling thought struck him. “What about Montagne’s own German staff officers? Who controls them?”
“Unimportant, Nicolas.” The Defense Minister shook his head. “Our people already have General Wismar and his subordinates in ‘precautionary custody.’”
Desaix relaxed minutely. Though somewhat high-handed, General Montagne’s prompt action had at least blocked one path by which the 7th Panzer’s mutiny might have spread. Once this “insurrection” was snuffed out, apologies, compensation, and perhaps even a judicious promotion or two should soothe any ruffled German feathers.
He pursed his lips. “Very well. What other measures have been taken to isolate this Leibnitz and his soldiers?”
Guichy rattled them off in quick succession. “Troops from General Belliard’s 5th Armored are posted on all roads leading into the 7th Panzer’s sector. And all supply deliveries have been halted.” He smiled grimly. “After all, if these German cowards won’t attack, they certainly don’t need any fuel or ammunition. Or food.”
Desaix nodded his approval. “Good. Good.” Then he frowned. Isolation alone would not solve this problem. Not in time. With more and more American and British troops pouring into Poland, EurCon could not afford to wait long enough to starve the 7th Panzer Division into submission. He said as much to Guichy.
The other man spread his hands. “Then what do you propose we do?”
What indeed? Desaix found himself wishing his enemies would end this mutiny for him. U.S. and British commandos and Polish guerrillas were already making life hell for other German and French outposts scattered across occupied Poland. So why couldn’t they hit Leibnitz and his rebels, too? An idea dawned. A bold scheme — one whose rewards might well be outweighed by its risks. Or so a more cautious man might say. But, with other, far more carefully laid schemes collapsing around his ears, Nicolas Desaix was in a mood to gamble.
He leaned forward and bluntly outlined his plan to bring the mutinous German troops to heel. Army units in any semblance of order were always rigidly hierarchical. The junior officers, the sergeants, and the common soldiers were all schooled in obedience. If Montagne could lop off the 7th Panzer’s upper echelons quickly enough, those who were left should fall in line.
Guichy heard him out in stunned silence. When he’d finished, the big Defense Minister breathed out, dismayed. “My God, Nicolas. If anything went wrong… or if anybody talked…” He shook his head. “The effects could be catastrophic.”
“Exactly.” Desaix hardened his voice. “That is precisely why we must not fail and why no one can be left in a position to talk. You understand?”
The Defense Minister nodded, still shaken.
“Then I suggest you transmit the appropriate orders to General Montagne. And that will be that.” Desaix tossed the message form into a wastebasket — the one his aides emptied into a shredder and then an incinerator at the end of each working day.
After Guichy left, he sat back, mulling over the rest of the war situation. His mouth turned downward. At every turn, his best efforts had been thwarted by bad luck or incompetent subordinates. First Duroc’s bumbled attempt to crush the Hungarian resistance. Then the overconfident generals who had promised complete victory in Poland in days — not weeks of futile warfare. Admiral Gibierge’s wasted nuclear strike. The destruction of his nation’s precious nuclear deterrent force. The catastrophe in Moscow. And now this failed attack on Gdansk.
Abruptly Desaix slammed his fist down. Idiots! Fools! He glared at the map laid out across one side of his desk. Seizing the Polish port was still the only way to end this war on a victorious note. He could see that, even if the military men could not.
His intelligence experts still insisted there were only two Combined Forces armored divisions in Poland. A new offensive, one backed by fresh EurCon troops, might still succeed in reaching the city. But where could he find those fresh troops?
Not from Germany. Schraeder’s government had only a few Territorial battalions and one panzergrenadier division left to guard its own borders and military installations. A month of war had bled the once-mighty German Army dry. A thin, humorless smile flitted across Desaix’s face. At least the fighting had brought one positive result.
France was in better shape. She still had her fifty-thousand-man-strong Force d’Action Rapide — the airmobile, marine, airborne, and light armored troops of her rapid deployment force. His smile faded. Those soldiers were needed to defend military posts against enemy commando raids. Unfortunately they were also needed to help hold down an increasingly restive French populace. As the fighting dragged on, there were more signs of trouble brewing in the big cities — Paris, Lyons, Lille, and the rest. And the gendarmes were again showing a reluctance to suppress civil disorder.
Desaix moodily contemplated the map. Perhaps they would have to abandon the territory won in Hungary in order to send part of General Fabvier’s IV Corps north. He scowled, detesting the thought of giving the Hungarian rebels a propaganda victory they would undoubtedly trumpet from the rooftops.
His eye fell on Belgium. Where the hell were those two combat brigades the Belgians had been ordered to provide? Those troops were desperately needed to free French soldiers for frontline service. Never mind the delays imposed by American air strikes on the German and French rail net, the damned Belgians could have walked to their new posts by now! He made a mental note to raise the issue with Belgium’s ineffectual ambassador and moved on.
The sultry July morning seemed to last forever. General Karl Leibnitz, Willi von Seelow, and the other two brigade commanders sat sweltering in the meager shade provided by a tree overlooking a cleared patch of grazing land. After two sleepless nights, they were hot and tired and dirty.
The lack of any breeze seemed symbolic, as well as uncomfortable. Nothing moved. Although they could have set up the division headquarters in the open, the trees were much safer. The unit was actually spread across one edge of a large clump of woods, tucked back inside about fifty meters or so.
The division’s four M577 headquarters trucks were parked back-to-back in a cross, with a camouflaged awning spread on poles between them. Around that were the other trucks and tents of the headquarters, all carefully concealed, and in turn surrounded by fighting positions and foxholes for the headquarters troops. A few
