As if the French could teach Germans anything about armor doctrine… My God, Rommel himself had once commanded the 7th Panzer!
Von Seelow’s unspoken concerns crystallized into certain dismay while Montagne thundered on about the bright future waiting for the combined Franco-German armed forces. Otto Yorck was right. This man was a disaster. The kicker came when the French general spoke about what he termed “simple administrative matters.” His language, so falsely dramatic before, suddenly turned vague and bureaucratic.
“Naturally, new force structures and new defense commitments require new dispositions. Accordingly, the Confederation’s Council of Nations has approved the redeployment of certain units. Including this one. When our II Corps becomes fully operational early next month, it will begin assuming key defense responsibilities for the region around Cottbus.
“To prepare for that, the 7th Panzer Division will send advance parties to that area next week. Your division’s leading elements will transfer during the last half of this month. I expect this entire corps to be at its new posts within six months.”
Willi was thunderstruck. Redeploy three divisions all the way to the other side of Germany in six months? Certainly it was possible to march units further in just a fraction of that time, but this was a permanent move. Ammo dumps, fuel depots, and spare-parts stockpiles would all have to be packed up, shipped, and then unloaded by the corps’s supply troops. Several thousand armored vehicles would need special maintenance support. And nearly fifty thousand soldiers and their families would have to find barracks and housing in and around the eastern German town. Better than most, he remembered what those old Soviet-built facilities were like. Bad when they were built, they must be almost unlivable now. The men were going to need careful handling. Who was…
Von Seelow suddenly noticed that both Leibnitz and Bremer looked as stunned as he did. Was this a total surprise to everyone? He studied Wismar’s face. Montagne must have told his deputy, but the German general looked even unhappier.
And why move them in the first place? The Bundeswehr only had three corps in its entire army. Stretched thinly, I Corps, the 7th Panzer’s present parent organization, was responsible for maintaining order over much of central and western Germany. Now, less than a week after this new European Confederation took shape, its leaders were apparently planning to cram almost the same firepower into a single narrow sector on the Polish border.
Von Seelow had seen the news reports of rising unrest inside Poland as oil supplies ran short. But that hardly seemed a justification for this massive troop transfer. The Poles weren’t a military threat. Nor were there any signs that the Russians were emerging from their self-imposed cycle of martial law and military purges.
He shook his head slowly. Whatever was going on, it didn’t look good.
First Lieutenant Tadeusz Wojcik noticed the change as soon as he walked inside out of the damp, chilly morning. An air of quiet concern and steady purpose filled the regimental operations building.
The long concrete building was the nerve center for the 11th’s three fighter squadrons. Not only were the regiment’s administrative offices here, but downstairs in the specially hardened basement, radio and radar operators managed a slice of Polish airspace stretching from the Czech Republic in the south to the border with Germany in the west. The camouflaged headquarters bunkers and buildings housing the 3rd National Air Defense Corps were right across the airfield. Responsible for all of southwestern Poland, the 3rd’s staff officers and senior commanders controlled the 11th Fighter Regiment, several other aircraft units, and a mixed bag of missile units — some using American-made anti-aircraft missiles, others still equipped with old Soviet-manufactured SA-2 and SA-3 missiles.
Normally the ops center was a cheerful, busy place. Today everyone’s expression was grim. Tad stopped the first pilot he saw, Lieutenant Stanislaw Gawlik. The thin, hawk-nosed pilot looked worried.
“Stan, what’s wrong? Somebody have an incident?” Nobody used the word “crash,” as if avoiding the word could avoid the actual event.
Gawlik shook his head. “No. Take a look at the intel board. More Confederation units are moving into eastern Germany. Ground forces, aircraft, the works. The French and Germans claim it’s just part of a routine ‘redeployment.’”
Wojcik half grinned. “Yeah, right. That’s so absurd it’s insulting. It’s all pressure to get us to knuckle under.”
The other lieutenant shook his head decisively. “Never. Look at what they’ve done to Hungary and Romania and the others. Economic colonies, with their people working in foreign-owned factories for pitiful wages. Puppet governments, secret police. We were under the Soviet boot too long to want someone else’s foot on our necks.” There was a grim light in his eyes when he spoke about the Russians.
Gawlik’s worried look returned as he continued. “First this damned oil embargo and now these troop movements. It’s like we’re being hemmed in on all sides. The government’s already protested, and the President and Prime Minister are both going to speak on television tonight. But I don’t see what else we can do. Any chance we’re getting more aid from the Americans? Or from Britain? Have you heard anything?”
Everyone assumed that Tad’s American birth somehow gave him an inside track on developments in the West.
He shrugged. “Nothing new. Not that I’ve heard about anyway.”
Tad wasn’t really sure what more Poland’s two faraway allies could do. Protected by USN and Royal Navy warships, their tankers were already pumping oil and gas ashore as fast as they could. Beyond that, several dozen weapons experts and training teams were already busy helping his country’s armed forces make the difficult transition away from old-style Soviet equipment and tactics. Short of actually stationing U.S. troops on Polish soil, there weren’t many other options open.
Gawlik seemed briefly disappointed, but he rallied fast. “Better check the board. You’re flying today. In fact, most of us are.”
The older man glanced at his watch. “I’ll be up in an hour. Good luck.” The lieutenant put real meaning into the trite expression.
The assignments board told the story. Pairs of F-15 Eagles were flying along the border on a twenty-four hour basis. A map showed the new patrol zones. The 11th’s area of responsibility was a two-hundred-kilometer section of the frontier, running from Kostryzn south to the southwest corner of Poland.
Tad noticed with interest that the border patrol track ran right next to the frontier, not back a few dozen kilometers as standard tactics and peacetime procedures might suggest. Any turn west would put them in German territory. The lack of maneuvering room meant this was a “fence” exercise, intended to tell these German and French bastards that the Polish Air Force was ready to block any movement into its territory.
Wojcik smiled at his own eagerness to climb inside the cockpit. With money and aviation fuel so tight, he’d only been able to fly once every two or three days. Now he’d fly at least daily, and with the German border right in his face. In an odd sort of way, things were looking up at the same time they were looking down.
Tad hooked up with his wingman, Lieutenant Sylwester Zawadzki after lunch. After a routine physical check, they both collected their maps and charts and then walked briskly down the hall to the regiment’s ready room.
Pilots and a full complement of staff officers packed the ready room — sitting in battered wooden chairs facing a map-filled wall or standing along the other walls. The regiment’s operations, intelligence, and meteorology officers sat off to one side, each waiting his turn to give a quick briefing. Even the 11th’s short, cherub-faced commander was there, standing with a knot of pilots just back from a mission.
Colonel Kadlubowski spotted them in the doorway and motioned them over. He looked tired, and Zawadzki whispered that the colonel had already flown two missions that morning himself.
“You boys are up next?”
“Yes, sir.”
The colonel clapped Tad on the shoulder and nodded toward Zawadzki. “Be careful up there, gentlemen. There’s a lot of activity on the western side of the border. Don’t start a war, but,” and his voice grew hard, “don’t give them an inch of our airspace.”
“Yes, sir.”
As the colonel turned away, the 11th’s operations officer took his place, flanked by two strangers. The two Eagle pilots introduced themselves to a major and captain who were the pilot and copilot of a “special electronics” An-26. Wojcik noticed that their flight suits did not have name tags, or any unit insignia. The two men were friendly
