by Larry Bond
Each of the tiny parachutes drifting toward German armored vehicles carried a small, sophisticated submunition. As the chute spiraled down, a millimeter-wavelength radar constantly scanned the ground in a slowly widening cone. The instant the seeker detected the characteristic radar profile of a tank, it would fire — sending a sharp-edged fragment lancing down through the tank’s thin top armor.
Puffs of smoke appeared beneath the chutes, each connected by a straight, glowing white line with a Leopard below. Three German tanks veered out of line and halted. Two were on fire.
In the same instant, Hell Team’s TOW and Javelin gunners fired another volley of antitank missiles. More Leopards died — hit before they could realize they were under attack from more than one direction.
A second ATGM volley was on its way before the Germans twigged to what was going on, and even then, the word didn’t get out to all their tanks in time. Only a handful popped smoke, triggering grenade launchers mounted on the turret sides. Those that did were suddenly covered in a dome of opaque whiteness, and Reynolds knew the smoke was multispectral, just as opaque to his team’s thermal imagers. Shit!
Three Leopards, the remnants of a platoon, surged out of their own smoke, swinging wide to flank the American-held treeline. One after the other, they stumbled into one of Hell Team’s minefields and stopped — immobilized by thunderous blasts that ripped tracks off road wheels and smashed through their weaker bottom armor.
Reynolds bared his teeth in a tight, tense grin. It had been relatively simple, given the range at which he’d planned to engage the Germans, to guess which way any tanks trapped in his kill zone would try to dodge.
Some of the tanks opened up, pumping 120mm rounds and long-range machine-gun fire into the trees ahead of them. Since the Germans could have only a general idea of where the American positions were, their shooting was wildly inaccurate. But the shells roaring overhead were impressive and terrifying, a new kind of fear for him to face.
All of the surviving Leopards were using smoke now, and weaving back and forth in violent evasive maneuvers. Reynolds was amazed at the agility of the fifty-five-ton monsters dancing over the ground at near-highway speeds. They were not advancing, though. Instead, the German vehicles started to disappear, hiding in folds in the ground or other cover. Good, thought Reynolds. Hooray for our side.
“Hewitt says he can’t see through the smoke,” Adams reported. The antitank section commander’s message was expected. Reynolds acknowledged, then told the corporal to pass the word: stand by for more artillery.
He craned his head, studying the wreck-strewn field in front of him.
Hell Team had seriously dinged the German tank company, inflicting far more losses than he’d expected. He guessed the Leopard commanders hadn’t expected to meet any opposition this far forward. The company, though, was only the lead element for a tank battalion, and the battalion for an armored or mechanized brigade. God alone knew what was backing that up.
Reynolds shook his head. He couldn’t stop them all, and he wasn’t about to play Fort Apache. Instead, he was presenting the Germans with a tactical problem, one that could be solved — but solving it would eat up precious time.
The book said that you didn’t charge dug-in troops with tanks. The book said that to push enemy foot soldiers out of the woods, you suppress them with artillery, then send in your own dismounted infantry to clear it, man-to-man.
He searched the German-held woods, two kilometers away. Past the wisps of clearing smoke, he could see a line of boxy, angled troop carriers pouring out of the trees. This time there really were dozens of them, with more Leopards coming right behind. They were just dots at this range, but he worked out the math: The Marders could cover that first kilometer in just three minutes, From that point, the panzergrenadiers they carried would dismount and cover the next thousand meters on foot. He had roughly ten minutes before they’d be close enough to engage.
It was time to skedaddle. “Pass the word to the platoon leaders. Get the wounded ready to move. Start packing up. First and 3rd platoons will move in five minutes.”
And then the German artillery opened up again, flaying the woods held by Hell Team with high explosive.
Reynolds heard the wailing freight-train roar and dove back to the bottom of the CP, seeking cover just as the first shells went off.
Whammm. Whammm. Whammm.
The ground shuddered, rocked, and bucked. Trees toppled — sheared off by direct hits.
Reynolds crouched helpless in his hole, trying to breathe air that contained more dust and smoke than oxygen. This was worse than the first barrage. Now that German forward observers could see where their rounds were falling, they could concentrate their fire, systematically walking the barrage up and down the small patch of woodland. Reynolds and his men were also more than a mere nuisance, and thus worthy of more attention. The Germans were using more guns this time, a lot more. Maybe a full battalion.
A nearby burst picked him up and slammed him into the ground, then another rolled him over before he could get his grip again.
Reynolds heard someone screaming and realized his men were being hit, maybe killed. Hatred flared. He was suddenly glad about the German tanks and crews they’d killed.
But it was still time to leave.
The barrage shifted slightly. Now most of the enemy shells were dropping to their front, about a hundred meters or so out. And the Germans were firing smoke, not explosives.
Uh-oh. With a smoke screen in place, the Marders could advance under its cover to almost point-blank range before dismounting their troops. Well, he knew the correct tactical solution to this problem, too. Bug out now.
His 1st and 3rd platoons, as planned, were already moving out. Reynolds took the field phone from Adams, amazed to find that the lines were still open. Speaking rapidly, he passed the word for all but the rear guard to get out.
He also had to phone his boss. “German infantry battalion advancing under smoke cover. They’re about a klick out,” Reynolds reported.
“Good job, Mike.” Colby paused, and then confirmed the decision he had already made. “Get your boys back now.”
Reynolds hung up and turned to check the progress of their retreat.
More foot soldiers ducked past him, sprinting north, away from the oncoming Germans. He looked around quickly, peering through the drifting smoke. He couldn’t see anybody else. And the engine noises from inside the enemy smoke screen were growing louder fast. Time to go.
He turned to the sergeant commanding his seven-man rear guard and shouted, “Okay, Robbins! We’re clear! Fall back!”
Staying low in case the German smoke screen thinned, they ran back, careful to take the same path followed by the rest of the company. The engineers who had laid the minefields in front of Hell Team’s positions had also mined areas behind the patch of woods. With a little luck, a few German tank crews might find that out the hard way.
The pickup zone was five hundred meters back, in a low spot well out of the German line of sight. Reynolds ran like he’d never run before, the distance seeming to stretch ahead of him forever.
The whine of turbines grew louder when he burst over the small rise that shielded the pickup zone.
Drab-green UH-60 Blackhawk troop carriers waited in the hollow, rotors already turning. Soldiers scrambled aboard by squads while other helicopters, already loaded, lifted off — streaming away to the northeast. One of the 1st Platoon’s rifle squads covered the area, lying prone in a line with their weapons pointed outward.
A howling roar snapped Reynolds’ head around in time to see two waves of four AH-64 Apache gunships flash past just a dozen meters off the ground. One of the machines flew past close enough so that he could see the gunner in the front seat, bent over his sight. When the pilot, seated higher up and further back, looked in his direction and waved, the 30mm gun mounted below its belly eerily tracked with the man’s gaze.
Then they were gone, climbing over the low rise
and spreading out into fighting pairs as they clattered south. Reynolds stood at the top of the hollow watching them vanish into the smoke and dust. He felt a sense of grim anticipation. Those Apaches carried enough firepower to tear a bloody chunk out of the German attack.
“Captain. Last chopper’s ready to roll.” Andy Ford’s calm voice called him back to his own responsibilities. Adams and the last men from 1st Platoon were just crowding into the helo’s troop compartment.
“Okay, Andy.” Reynolds followed Ford downhill, ducked under the rotors, and pulled himself inside.
As soon as he was aboard, the big helicopter lifted off, turbine engines screaming with effort. The deck surged up beneath him and they were off — sliding low over the landscape at nearly 150 miles an hour. This close to the ground, the sensation of speed was overwhelming.
With the speed flowed relief. They’d made it. His company had done its job. Combat was a known quantity now, to his men and to himself. They’d paid a blood price for their success, though, and now the war had turned personal. It was no longer just a professional exercise in tactics.
FORWARD HEADQUARTERS, 19TH PANZERGRENADIER BRIGADE
Despite the periodic, hissing waves of static generated by American jamming, the increasingly desperate voices crackling over von Seelow’s headphones came in clearly — mirroring the state of the battle raging in front of Swiecie.
“Can you get forward, Jurgen?”
Von Seelow heard the major commanding the 191st Panzergrenadier Battalion talking to an infantry company commander trying to push into the village itself.
“No, Herr Major!” the unknown captain shouted. “The damned Amis have us pinned down short of the farmhouse… shit!” The staccato, ripping sound of high-velocity cannon fire echoed over the radio circuit. “Another fucking gunship just made a pass. Oh, Jesus. Sammi’s Marder is hit. It’s burning!”
Willi was listening in to the radio frequencies allocated to his combat battalions and support units, trying to extract as much information from sketchy reports and snatches of panicked dialogue as he could. Frustrated, he tore the headset off and poked his head out through one of the command Marder’s rear roof hatches.
Smoke, white from artillery smoke rounds, and black from blazing tanks and APCs, stained the northern skyline. Flashes rippled through the smoke pall. Tank guns, exploding shells, and infantry small arms all blended in one hammering, thumping, discordant roar.
Von Seelow’s eyes narrowed. His attack was falling apart — broken up by the unsuspected American defensive line behind the Polish positions he’d overrun the night before. He scowled, furious with the 19th’s new recon unit — two Luchs platoons he’d cobbled together with replacements and attached Territorial Army units — and with himself. Poorly motivated, poorly led, and made overconfident by their easy victory over the Poles, his scouts had sat on their asses through the night instead of probing ahead. That was bad. Even worse was the fact that he’d let them get away with it.
Willi closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of the fighting up ahead. Men, his own soldiers, were dying because he’d neglected one of his responsibilities. The pain he felt was almost physical, like a bayonet tearing at his guts.
“Sir!”
Private Neumann’s cry pulled him back down inside the Marder. “Yes? What is it?”
“Major Feist is on the division frequency, Herr Oberstleutnant. He wants to speak with you.”
Willi put his radio headset back on. What did the 7th Panzer Division’s assistant operations chief want now? “Von Seelow here.”
“Good,” Feist said coldly. He was one of the division staff officers who had sided with von Olden before he was relieved and sent home to Germany in disgrace. The little mustachioed major was a charter member of the “I hate ossies” club. “We have new orders from II Corps, Herr Oberstleutnant. The 19th Panzergrenadier is to disengage and fall back on Gruczno.”
“What? Why?” Von Seelow didn’t bother hiding his astonishment. The tiny hamlet of Gruczno had been the jump-off point for his night attack.
“We’ve identified a new enemy formation in line — the American 101st Division.”
“Tell me something I don’t know!” Willi snarled. “That’s all the more reason to push ahead and break through now! Before the Amis can dig in any deeper!”
“Negative, Herr Oberstleutnant. General Montagne’s orders are explicit,” Feist sniffed. “Units from the French 5th Armored and the III Corps have also run into stronger opposition than expected. Corps believes we must regroup and rethink our plan of operations in light of these new developments.”
Von Seelow saw red. The one thing the enemy needed was time, and now Montagne and those other idiots were handing it to them on a silver platter. “Tell corps to stuff its ‘developments’ up its ass…”
“I suggest you comply with your orders, Herr Oberstleutnant,” the major said coolly, apparently unmoved by his outburst. “You have thirty minutes to begin withdrawing. If not, I’m sure we can find someone else to command your brigade. Feist, out.”
Willi stood staring at the appalled faces of his staff for several seconds before growling out the string of orders that would put the 19th Panzergrenadier’s drive toward Gdansk on hold.
11/34TH FIGHTER REGIMENT, GDYNIA AIR BASE, POLAND
Major Tad Wojcik climbed down from his F-15 Eagle feeling like he’d run a marathon and then boxed a few barefisted rounds with a gorilla. Flying combat missions all day and doing paperwork all night was bleeding away his last carefully hoarded stores of endurance and energy. Even now, after a hectic air-to-air combat mission, his work wasn’t done. One of the squadron staff, Sergeant Jerzy Palubin, was waiting, both with information about the rest of the regiment and with questions about the mission he’d just finished flying.
His new slot as 1st Squadron’s operations officer, and the promotion that came with it, had come quickly — but holes in the composite fighter regiment’s organization had to be filled as soon as they opened up. Major Wolnoski had died an airman’s death, crashing trying to land a crippled Eagle. Tad had taken over his job and rank the same afternoon. He was one of the last of the squadron’s original pilots. Wolnoski had been another.
Now, just a few days later, it felt like he’d been doing the job forever. He’d been ready for it, having proven himself a survivor as well as a skilled pilot. He’d kept flying, of course — just like his predecessor. There just weren’t enough pilots.
In spite of his fatigue, Tad was pleased. The morning’s mission had been a good one, the first in a long while. Ten Eagles had managed to intercept a EurCon raid near Stargard that morning, well before they could reach the rail yards there. For once, French and German fighter cover had been light, and they’d torn into the enemy attack aircraft, downing at least a quarter of the thirty-plane raid.
His own flight of four planes, about all that was left of 1st Squadron in flyable condition, had accounted for five Mirages all by themselves.
“It’s just too bad none of them were Germans. I really wanted to kill a few more Krauts on this hop,” he remarked grimly to Palubin, as they walked back to the ops building.
The older noncom glanced back at him, obviously puzzled and a little disgusted by the disappointment in his voice. “Who cares whether they’re German or not? They’re all the enemy, aren’t they?”
Evidently reminded of the disparity between their ranks by Tad’s shocked look, Palubin quickly apologized for his outburst, but Tad waved it off. “Never mind, Jerzy. You’re right anyway. It doesn’t matter.”
He followed the sergeant back to the ops building in a pensive mood. He had spoken reflexively, but maybe it was stupid to count Germans apart, as if they were some sort of evil breed. After all, France was at least as much to blame for this war.
He wondered how his parents were faring. A brief message passed through official channels had told him that they were alive and safe in Warsaw. Make that relatively safe, he decided. There were too m
any rumors that the Russians could come pouring across the border at any moment. If that happened… Tad felt cold. If the Russians sided with EurCon, then all their sacrifices would be in vain. Poland would fall. He pushed the depressing thought away, focusing his worries instead on his mother and father.
The fragmentary message hadn’t said where exactly his parents were living in Warsaw. Probably in one of the sprawling, dirty refugee tent cities that were springing up on the capital’s outskirts. Did they have enough food to eat? Probably not. The war had badly disrupted Poland’s own food distribution systems, and the limited supplies coming in by sea went to the armed forces first. While their nation was under threat, civilians would have to fend for themselves. Tad grimaced. Maybe it wouldn’t be so hard to hate the French, after all.
But did he have to hate to do his job? That was worth thinking harder about.
When they got to the operations building, the 1st Squadron’s commander, Lieutenant Colonel Lyskawa, congratulated him on his two kills. They raised Tad’s score to nineteen.
Then Wojcik saw him smile for the first time in a week.
“We’re getting some new aircraft, Major. Eight ‘C’ models will be delivered tomorrow, along with three new pilots. Our two oldest planes get sent to England, for rework.”
Tad’s mind raced. New planes and pilots? They were the first in weeks — the first tangible signs that Poland’s American and British allies were winning their battle to open the sea and air corridors to his adopted country. They already had more pilots than F-15s, so the reinforcements would almost double the squadron’s available aircraft. As operations officer, it would be his job to assign missions to the squadron’s planes. Suddenly his options had grown, and he felt as if there was a chance. They weren’t overstrength enough to pull any pilots out of the line, but they’d be able to stand a few down for a day’s rest.
