were bound to hit someone.
Of course, it would have been a lot easier if they could have just blown the bridge and been done with it. But rigging enough demolitions to bring down a major structure took time. It was also obvious. Even with a strike and counterstrike air war in progress, Warsaw hadn’t wanted to give EurCon any more excuses to escalate the conflict.
He turned to the lieutenant manning the command bunker’s communications gear. “Any word from the Zasieki OP yet?” He had to shout to be heard over the constant, deafening barrage.
“No, sir.”
“What about Lieutenant Lesniak?”
“Nothing, Major.”
Malanowski chewed his lower lip. That worried him. They’d lost contact with the tiny observation post more than an hour ago — shortly after the enemy artillery barrage began. Maybe the shelling had cut the telephone wires his signals troops had laid. And maybe not.
Concerned by the ominous silence on his flank, he’d sent Lesniak and a small patrol north along the river. They were under orders to make contact with the OP and report back. Now they were missing, too. Were they pinned down by the artillery? Silenced by German radio jamming? Or had the lieutenant and his men run into more trouble than they could handle?
After Malanowski’s first reports of increased enemy activity across the river, his regimental commander had promised him the first available reinforcements. But the major knew they would be a long time coming. With so much ground to cover, the 4th Mechanized Division had very few reserves held back.
Essentially the 411th was on its own.
Faced with that reality, he’d deployed his own tactical reserve, D Company, at right angles to the river, covering his northern flank. It wasn’t much, just fourteen BMPs and a hundred infantrymen, but it was all he had.
The shelling changed tempo suddenly, slowing and growing softer.
Malanowski scanned the ground sloping down toward the Neisse again. He could see shells bursting along the shoreline, exploding in puffs of grayish-white smoke. The Germans were building a smoke screen to cover their assault! He showed his teeth in a quick tigerish grin. His battalion had suffered under the enemy’s artillery fire for long enough. Now they would have a chance to pay the Germans back in full.
“Thermal sight!”
His senior sergeant handed him a thermal imaging sight they’d stripped from one of their American-supplied Dragon antitank missile launchers. He cradled the bulky sight in both hands and hoisted it up to the bunker’s observation slit.
The sight “saw” temperature variations among different objects — leaves, the water, men, and vehicles — and turned them into a clear, monochrome view of the world outside. Hotter objects showed up in shades of white and cooler ones in shades of black.
Malanowski panned back and forth between the highway bridge and the opposite shore, looking closely for the first signs of enemy movement. Nothing yet. But they wouldn’t wait much longer. He glanced at the lieutenant manning his commo gear. “Order all companies to stand to!”
“Sir.”
The major checked the river again. Still nothing. What the devil were the EurCon commanders playing at? Every minute they delayed gave his soldiers more time to scramble into their fighting positions and to clear away blast-heaped dirt or shattered tree limbs that blocked their fields of fire.
Gunfire exploded on his right flank and quickly spread down the line — first a single shot, then a crackling, ear-splitting roar as assault rifles, machine guns, and tank cannon opened up.
“Major! D Company is under attack!” Obviously stunned by what he was reporting, the young lieutenant stood shaking, with one hand still pressing the field telephone against his ear. “They’re being hit by enemy tanks and infantry! Battalion strength at least!”
Malanowski dashed to a firing slit looking north. The gray haze was thicker there. More shells burst among the shattered trees, blending with the dense, black smoke pouring out of burning APCs. Flames stabbed out of the murk — marking both his firing line and the wave of German tanks and panzer-grenadiers smashing into his battalion’s flank and rear.
Christ. He spun toward the ashen-faced lieutenant, rattling off new orders as fast as they popped into his head. “Tell A Company to reinforce the right flank! And tell Captain Stachniak to swing his T-72s north!”
If D Company could just hold for a few more minutes, they might buy him enough time to reorient his defenses.
It was too late. Malanowski could see men falling back through the smoke, pausing just long enough to fire a burst or two in the direction they’d come before retreating again. One cartwheeled backward, knocked off his feet by return fire. Another lay bloody and broken, sprawled across a fallen tree trunk. Rounds whipcracked overhead. A T-72 clanked forward through the fleeing infantry, still trailing torn camouflage netting from its turret and rear deck. Its turret whined, slewing from side to side as it looked for targets.
The T-72 disappeared inside a bright orange flash — hit by a German armor-piercing round. Its rounded turret blew off and fell beside the burning tank. Secondary explosions rocked the hull as stored fuel and ammunition cooked off.
The smoke thinned for an instant, giving Malanowski a brief glimpse of men in “Fritz” Kevlar helmets moving closer — advancing in short rushes through the woods. They were tossing grenades and firing bursts into Polish foxholes and bunkers. His flank was collapsing. The Germans were inside the battalion’s defensive perimeter.
He made an instant decision. His soldiers were being overrun too fast to put up any effective resistance. Staying here meant dying here. But maybe he could save something from the wreckage. He pulled his head away from the firing slit. “Order all companies to withdraw! We’ll fall back south to the alternate rally point and regroup!”
While the lieutenant relayed his instructions to anyone still listening on the battalion net, Malanowski handed the precious thermal sight to his sergeant. Then he grabbed his personal weapon, an AKM assault rifle, and a knapsack from one corner of the bunker. He spun round, checking the rest of his staff. They were ready. Papers, codebooks, and maps they didn’t have time to pack up were heaped in a single pile, ready for destruction.
Machine-gun fire rattled somewhere outside. Stray rounds thwacked into the bunker’s timber roof and shredded sandbags on its sides. The Germans were closing in, and it was high time they were gone.
Malanowski and the sergeant led the way, clearing the bunker door in a rush with their assault rifles at the ready. The rest of the staff followed, crouching low as bullets whined past. The last man out turned, pulled the pin from a grenade, and lobbed it back through the door. It went off with a dull
Still bent low, they sidled away from the bunker. Their headquarters BMP was parked just a few meters away, surrounded on three sides by raised earth embankments and covered by camouflage netting. Its crew already had the engine running and the rear troop doors open.
A German Leopard came thundering out of the smoke only a hundred meters away. Its turret and long- barreled gun pointed off to the left, aiming at a target somewhere closer to the river.
“Down!” Malanowski threw himself prone.
The BMP’s gun barked once, slamming a 73mm HEAT round into the Leopard at point-blank range. The German tank rocked sideways and shuddered to a stop with smoke pouring out through the jagged hole torn in its armor. The corpse of its commander lay draped over his roof-mounted machine gun.
Before the Polish major could start to smile, another Leopard, invisible through the gray haze, avenged its fallen comrade with a single cannon round.
The BMP exploded, spraying sharp-edged metal in all directions. Malanowski could hear its trapped crew screaming in agony as they burned to death. He scrambled to his feet, hearing shouts in German to the north and east. The panzergrenadiers were practically right on top of them.
“On your feet! Move! Move!” He erupted into action, kicking and hauling stunned soldiers to their feet, then pushing them south — away from the burning BMP. With their commander urging them on, the battalion’s
