Cauldron

by Larry Bond

  Reynolds sighed. The real issues weren’t with Colby, but with himself, and with the entire battalion. Would they hang together? Would this complex machine built of men and weapons work right? The shooting was still too far away for him to feel any personal fear, but he’d admitted to himself that he was terribly afraid of screwing up.

  Colby finished his conversation, straightened up, and looked around. Only a few of the battalion’s thirty-odd officers were absent, and he said, in a powerful, carrying voice army wags said was only issued to lieutenant colonels and above, “All right, let’s get it done.”

  Even as he spoke, an enlisted man passed out copies of the battalion operations order. Reynolds quickly scanned its cramped, coded, familiar format:

  Task Organization

  TF CONTROL

  Scouts

  81mm Mortars

  3/C/326 EN (OPCON)

  3-320 FA (DS) (105mm)

  213 Polish FA BN (155mm)

  A/1/101 AVN (DS)

  1. Situation a. Enemy Forces. II EurCon Corps is expected to continue offensive operations, driving on Gdansk. In our sector we can expect to see reinforced brigade and division-sized attacks, supported by air and artillery. They are at 75 % to 90 % strength, and their morale is good.

  b. Friendly Forces. To our front is the Polish 314th Mechanized Regiment. To our left (across the Vistula River, division and corps boundary) is the Polish 9th Mechanized Division. On our right we tie in with 2-187th. To our rear is Gdansk. 3rd BDE’s mission is to defend in sector to allow passage of the Polish 11th Mech Div and destroy enemy first echelon units. On order withdraw to subsequent battle positions near Laskowice.

  c. Attachments and detachments. None.

  2. Mission. TF 3-187 conducts defense NLT 2400 29 Jun to destroy enemy in sector VIC Swiecie. Assist the rearward passage of the Polish 314th Mech Rgmt. On order withdraw…

  The rest of the order was amplification and explanation, but Reynolds instantly understood his task. Their battalion had its left flank anchored on the Vistula River, and would deploy its three infantry companies, with their attachments, on a line. Bravo Company, “Team Bastard,” had the left flank, west of the highway, then “The Choppers,” Charlie Company, then Reynolds’ Alpha Company. Engineers and TOW missiles were attached to every company but his. He might have been disappointed by that, but at least it meant that his men weren’t expected to take the heat.

  He’d still see plenty of action, though. Third Brigade guarded the most direct route between the EurCon II Corps and Gdansk. EurCon would want that road, real bad.

  Out in front of them, the Polish 314th Mechanized Regiment clung to a battle line north of Bydgoszcz. At its present strength of just forty tanks and APCs, it should have been withdrawn from the line and reequipped, but Poland had no reserves left. The 314th would have to hold the enemy for as long as it could, bloodying and delaying them.

  After falling back through the 101st, the battered Polish regiment and its parent division would form a mobile reserve, resting and refitting. Meanwhile, the Screaming Eagles, and Reynolds’ “Angels from Hell,” would be responsible for keeping the advancing French and Germans at bay.

  It took Alpha Company’s soldiers thirty minutes of hard marching to reach their section of the new line, minutes Reynolds was already ticking off against a midnight deadline. He and his troops had what seemed like a million things to do before then.

  Standard operating procedure saved him. His troops knew what they had to do as soon as they arrived. While that still left a lot of work and planning for the officers and noncoms, the routine items were already part of the plan.

  Reynolds quickly walked the ground with his platoon commanders. He forced himself to take the time to do it right, to do it by the book, because the book wouldn’t let him forget anything important. To hold his section of the line, he had three platoons of infantry of about thirty men each, armed with automatic rifles and machine guns. The company’s heavier firepower came from two 60mm mortars, useful for laying smoke or harassing unprotected troops but not much else, and six Javelin antitank missile launchers.

  He took strength from the familiar routine, even in an unfamiliar landscape. But behind the quiet, calm front, dozens of troubling questions filled his mind. Would his men hold up under enemy fire? Would he? Had he forgotten anything — anything that might get his soldiers killed unnecessarily? At last, he shrugged inwardly. There was no way he could answer questions like that. Not until tomorrow.

  The sun lay low on the western horizon by the time Alpha Company broke for dinner. Reynolds squatted on the grass near the other men in his company headquarters, chewing reflectively on the rubbery Swedish meatballs in his mess tin. His troops had accomplished a lot, he decided. Ammunition was still a problem, but their communications nets, both radio and landline were in place, and battalion had promised him engineer support to help build obstacles and lay minefields…

  “Movement to the front!” The sudden shout snapped everyone’s eyes around, and those few men who did not have their weapons immediately to hand cursed their error and raced to get them.

  Even as he was moving to cover, Reynolds spotted a Humvee roaring up a dirt road from the southwest. The driver seemed to be doing his best to keep the utility truck airborne as much as possible, and Alpha Company’s commander carefully checked to make sure there wasn’t an enemy in hot pursuit.

  As the wheeled vehicle roared closer, Reynolds recognized Colby in the passenger seat, along with Captain Marino, the battalion’s intelligence officer, or S-2. Another lieutenant colonel, a stranger, drove. The Humvee was heading for a stone barn serving as the company CP, and Reynolds hurried back, making it there just as the dust cleared and the riders disembarked.

  Colby had on his best outgoing, cheerful manner. “Can you take three more for dinner, Mike?”

  “No problem, Colonel,” Reynolds answered, glad that he had successfully arranged a hot meal for this evening. With combat imminent, it might be their last for some time.

  The battalion commander introduced the other lieutenant colonel. “Captain, meet Ferd Irizarri, liaison with the Polish 11th Mech. You may remember him. We were at Irwin together.”

  Reynolds nodded. He remembered Irizarri very well. Of middling height, the dark-haired liaison officer seemed to pack enough energy into his frame for a much taller man. He wore Polish battle dress, but with American rank insignia, and he carried an American-made Ingram submachine gun. While Colby’s and Marino’s gear looked neat and fresh, Irizarri’s was worn — not slovenly, but he’d definitely been in the field for a long time.

  The last time Mike Reynolds had seen Ferdinand Irizarri up close, the man had been serving as the executive officer of the OPFQR battalion at Fort Irwin, the army’s National Training Center. The OPFOR unit specialized in using Soviet gear and Soviet-style tactics against regular battalions like the 3/187th rotating in for advanced tactical training. They were good, very good. Low-powered lasers, blanks, and small explosive charges used as artillery simulators took the place of real bullets and shells, but everything else was kept as close to real combat as possible. Harsh experience in Korea and Vietnam had taught the American military to train hard and train often. Combat leaders and troops were supposed to make their basic mistakes in front of Fort Irwin’s unforgiving evaluators — not in a real war.

  He led them toward the chow line. “So now you’re working with the Poles, Colonel?”

  Irizarri nodded. “I’ve been here for two months, getting the 11th ready for the transition to U.S. tactics and equipment. The war caught us just a few months short of trading in the Soviet gear. Now I’m the link between their fighting style and ours.”

  Colby and Marino had brought Irizarri back to coordinate the withdrawal of the 314th. Its escape route, once the EurCon pressure grew too great, lay right through the middle of Alpha Company’s position. The movement of one unit through another, called a passage of lines, was always dangerous. First, because it coul
d be tough to identify the incoming unit as friend or foe, and second, because there was always a risk that the two formations would get tangled up in each other, so that instead of two combat-ready units, you wound up with one disordered mess.

  “We’ve been up ahead getting the exact picture,” Colby announced as they ate. “I wish I could send all the battalion’s officers up there, but there’s no time. I’ll tell you this, though.” He leaned forward a little, emphasizing his point. “You are going to see some beat-down soldiers come through here tomorrow morning. They need us.”

  After finishing the quick meal and briefly touring Alpha Company’s defenses, Colby was done. He had two more companies to visit before it got too dark to see. But before climbing back into his Humvee, the 3/187th’s dapper commanding officer clapped Reynolds on the shoulder. “I like what I see, Mike. You’re on track. What’ll we do tomorrow when they come at us?”

  Reynolds smiled. “Give ’em hell, sir.”

  19TH PANZERGRENADIER BRIGADE, NEAR BYDGOSZCZ

  Willi von Seelow looked up from the map at the circle of tired, confident faces in front of him. “That’s it, then, gentlemen. Are there any questions?”

  “No, Herr Oberstleutnant.” His battalion commanders and senior staff officers shook their heads in unison.

  “Good.” Von Seelow slowly straightened to his full height, aware that the top of his head almost brushed against the shelter tent his headquarters troops had rigged between the brigade’s command vehicles. “Remember this: when we attack, we attack hard. Push your companies forward on a narrow front, using heavy smoke as a shield. Then find the Poles, fix them with firepower, and grind them under!”

  They nodded, stiffened to attention, and then filed out, heading for their own command tanks and Marders.

  Willi followed them outside and stood looking out across the darkened landscape in front of him. He was taking a big risk with this attack. Trying to conduct offensive operations at night invariably spawned serious command and control problems. Unable to see clearly, units got lost or blundered into each other. Friendly-fire incidents multiplied. As the surrounding darkness magnified fears and confused the senses, attacks could bog down without even encountering significant enemy resistance. Given all of that, he knew that many of his counterparts would have waited longer, at least until first light.

  But von Seelow had his eyes on the clock, not on tactical perfection.

  For the EurCon forces inside Poland, time was as much an enemy as the opposing soldiers waiting up the highway. Every day — no, every hour — they were delayed gave the Americans and British more time to land troops, tanks, artillery pieces, and combat helicopters at Gdansk. The first big seaborne convoys could only be days away at most.

  Willi gritted his teeth. They should be closer to the port city than they were. Much closer. But routing the Poles out of the factories, chemical storage areas, and housing tracts around Bydgoszcz had taken far longer than it should have — thanks largely to what seemed the typical French reluctance to take casualties. He shook his head angrily. Again and again, Germany’s “allies” had relied on time-consuming artillery barrages and tiny, halfhearted attacks to drive the city’s defenders from their positions. They had gained ground, but slowly, so slowly. Twenty kilometers in two days! At that rate, the whole American army could reach Poland before he and his men caught even a glimpse of Gdansk’s skyline!

  So, von Seelow thought bitterly, it was up to the 19th Panzergrenadier to kick the attack into high gear. As always. Well, he was getting tired of asking his soldiers to fight and die just to correct French mistakes.

  He swallowed the anger, knowing it was unproductive now. They were committed. Instead, he ran over his attack plan one more time, looking for weaknesses or problems he’d overlooked earlier. He couldn’t find any. If the Polish defenses were as thin as his scouts reported, this sudden, sharp blow under the cover of darkness should break them wide open.

  Willi squared his shoulders. Very well. He would shatter the Poles, regroup and refuel through the night, and push on through the gap at sunup. The brief pause should give his troops time to sort themselves after the inevitable confusion of a night battle without giving the Poles enough time to rebuild their defensive line.

  Only one nagging worry remained. Where exactly were the Americans? Reliable reports said they had the better part of two divisions in Poland — the lightly armed 82nd and the 101st — but where in Poland? Without their photo recon and SIGINT satellites, France and Germany lacked any real ability to collect strategic intelligence. Even their air reconnaissance was spotty at best. As more and more U.S. and British warplanes joined the battle, fewer and fewer EurCon air recon missions were getting through to their targets.

  As a result, educated guesses about enemy dispositions were all EurCon intelligence officers had to offer. And right now, their situation maps showed both American outfits still deployed around Gdansk and Gdynia, defending the area’s ports and airfields against a possible surprise attack by French or German airmobile units.

  He hoped they were right about that. Of course, light infantry units were no real match for his Leopard and Marderarmed battalions, but they could slow him down.

  Willi von Seelow stared out into the blackness ahead. Without firm intelligence, he and his brigade were fighting blind in more than one way.

  ALPHA COMPANY, 3/187TH INFANTRY

  Thunder roused Mike Reynolds from an uneasy sleep, the kind of hammering rumble that you get on the flat Texas plain during a summer storm. Then he remembered that he wasn’t in Texas.

  “Heavy artillery fire to the southwest, Captain!” Corporal Adams shouted from the cluster of radios and telephones that kept them in touch with the rest of the battalion and brigade. “And heavy-duty jamming on all radio frequencies!”

  Southwest. That was the Poles getting pummeled, then. Reynolds scrambled to his feet.

  “First Platoon reports movement to their front!”

  “On my way!” Reynolds sprinted out of the old stone barn they were using as a company CP, heading for the front. The sounds were changing — shifting from a distant rumbling to a staccato series of higher-pitched bursts. Tank fire. The Poles were under attack.

  First Sergeant Ford was there ahead of him, waiting in a foxhole with Second Lieutenant John Caruso, the 1st Platoon’s young and inexperienced leader. Both men were scanning the ground ahead, using night-vision gear. Repeated flashes lit the horizon.

  “What have you got?” Reynolds fought to keep his voice under control. Fear was always contagious.

  “Six-plus tracks, advancing,” Ford answered, pointing out into the darkness.

  One of the vehicles was moving a lot faster than the others, bouncing and rolling across the uneven ground with its headlights on. It had to be a friendly. Didn’t it? Reynolds snapped out an order. “Pass the word to all platoons: hold fire!”

  He didn’t want to start his war by killing allied soldiers by mistake.

  The vehicle slowed and stopped just outside Alpha Company’s perimeter. It was a Humvee. One man slid out from behind the wheel and came forward with his hands up to show he was unarmed. Guided by 1st Platoon soldiers who kept their guns on him just in case, Lt. Col. Ferdinand Irizarri made his way to the foxhole where Reynolds and the others were waiting.

  “Those are Polish tracks out there, Colonel?” Reynolds asked.

  “Yes.” Irizarri’s mouth tightened as he filled them in. Hit first by heavy artillery and then by at least a brigade-sized attack on a battalion-sized frontage, the Polish outfit he’d been attached to had never stood a chance. Some parts of their defensive line had simply disappeared — deluged by German armor. The rest had either fled or died in place.

  Jesus, Reynolds realized, we’re next. He shivered, suddenly cold.

  “Look, Mike. I’ve got wounded in the Humvee. And more coming. You can expect stragglers coming in across your whole line,” Irizarri said, grim-faced. “They’ll be showing green chem lights
.”

  Reynolds nodded, hearing Ford and Caruso already organizing ground guides and safe lanes through the company’s defenses. “We’ll bring your people through, Colonel.”

  Within minutes, small clumps of armored fighting vehicles were crawling through Alpha Company’s fighting positions. Wounded men were piled on top of each tank and APC. The smell of diesel fuel hung in the air, along with the smell of burned metal and rubber.

  The last Polish survivors were still coming in when the 3/187th’s battalion commander arrived. Colby looked worried.

  Reynolds could understand that. Without the Polish armor as a mobile reserve, the battalion was going to be left dangling pretty much on its own. Colby didn’t waste any time before outlining Alpha Company’s new orders.

  Along with an attached TOW platoon, he wanted Reynolds and his men to set up one thousand meters out in front of the rest of the line. They were expected to delay the next German attack for as long as possible, taking over the 314th’s job of bloodying and slowing the oncoming enemy.

  Reynolds whistled softly in dismay. The mission was important, but it was also the kind of assignment that could go suddenly, disastrously wrong.

  “One last thing, Mike,” Colby said. “What will your team’s call sign be?”

  A company with attachments was called a team, and one centered on Alpha Company would normally be “Alpha Team,” but no self-respecting grunt would settle for something so tame-sounding. Reynolds knew that, considering where they were going, there was really only one choice. “How about ‘Hell Team,’ sir?”

  Colby nodded. “Go brief your people, Captain.”

  19TH PANZERGRENADIER BRIGADE, NORTH OF BYDGOSZCZ

  The short summer night was coming to an end as the cloud-covered darkness overhead slowly gave way to a gray, pink-tinged glow in the east.

  Von Seelow sipped cautiously at the scalding-hot coffee in his mug, feeling the caffeine washing away fatigue and infusing new energy. Then he looked up from the mug, surveying the rutted field around him. The brigade’s forward command post — a small, battered collection of Marders, American-made M577 command tracks, trucks, and jeeps — occupied what had been the Polish main position. Shell craters and burning wreckage scattered all around testified to the power and stunning ferocity of the German attack.