by Larry Bond
Bertaud eased back on his stick, climbing to clear the warehouses, shops, and homes lining the waterfront. His thumb settled back over the camera button on his stick. Any second now…
Still moving at high speed, the Mirage thundered over one last row of buildings and came out over the ship-crowded harbor. Now! He stabbed the camera button and leveled off.
Spewing flares to decoy away any hand-held SAMs fired from the merchant vessels below, Bertaud made one lightning-quick pass over the harbor area — racing above at least a dozen large transports and freighters tied up along the docks, uniformed men scattering for cover, and hundreds of camouflaged armored vehicles parked nose-to-tail on the quay. My God.
He keyed his radio. “Scout Control, this is Scout Leader! The Americans are landing their heavy equipment. Repeat, the Americans are already landing their heavy equipment.”
With his mission completed, Bertaud turned away, heading for safety at full military power.
He never saw the radar-guided surface-to-air missile speeding after him. The Hawk’s powerful warhead went off right behind the recon jet’s starboard wing and ripped it off. Cloaked in flame, the Mirage III cartwheeled into the water and exploded.
PALAIS ROYAL, PARIS
The first reports of Captain Bertaud’s radioed warning reached Paris well after dark.
In private conference with the head of the DGSE and the Minister of Defense, Nicolas Desaix sat staring down at his desk with his shoulders hunched as he absorbed this latest piece of horribly bad news. All the exhilaration of the morning generated by Ambassador Sauret’s report that the Russians would join the war had turned to ashes in his mouth.
He grimaced. The news from Moscow was still very sketchy, but it was clear that Marshal Kaminov and his followers were dead — and with them any hope of a Franco-Russian treaty. Even worse, it appeared that Russia’s civilian President had regained power. The man was notoriously pro-American. How had this happened? Who had betrayed them? He looked up at Morin. “You still haven’t been able to make contact with Duroc?”
The intelligence director shook his head, looking very worried. “No, Minister. And no one at our embassy has seen the major or his surveillance team for more than twenty-four hours.”
“Impossible!”
Michel Guichy stirred in his chair. “Impossible or not, Nicolas, they are missing.” The Defense Minister shrugged. “Perhaps they are dead. Or held prisoner. What difference does it really make in the greater scheme of things? We face far more pressing problems.”
The big Norman leaned forward. “Without the Russians on our side, we have just one chance left for victory. We must seize Gdansk before more American reinforcements arrive.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know, Guichy!” Growing despair stripped away Desaix’s thin veneer of politeness. Then, with an effort, he regained a measure of self-control. “You’ve spoken with our field commanders?”
Guichy nodded. “They say it is still possible.”
“How?” For the first time in hours, Desaix felt a measure of hope. Perhaps the war was not lost, after all.
“These armored units our reconnaissance pilot spotted were still unloading. Meanwhile the American and Polish divisions deployed near Bydgoszcz are still very weak and spread too thinly over too wide an area,” the Defense Minister said. “General Montagne and the other commanders are convinced that once our tanks and troops punch a hole in those defenses and pour through, the enemy won’t be able to stop us short of the port.”
“When do we attack again?” Desaix asked eagerly.
“Tomorrow, at first light.”
CHAPTER 35
Cataclysm
JULY 2 — HEADQUARTERS, 19TH PANZERGRENADIER BRIGADE, NEAR GRUCZNO
Willi von Seelow was still refining his plans, trying to find some combination of moves that would give his brigade an extra edge when it went into battle. He could not change geography or the clock. Unless they broke through soon, today, and kept moving, they would never make it to Gdansk in time.
He knew what the Americans were capable of. Back when he’d reluctantly served East Germany’s dying regime, he had trained against the “NATO threat.” After the reunification, he’d trained with the Americans as new allies. He cursed them now. If not for the infantry division dug in to his front, his brigade would be halfway to Gdansk by now. Worse, the stubborn resistance his brigade had encountered in its first attack against Swiecie was only the barest taste of what lay ahead.
Right now, ships loaded with Abrams tanks and Bradley fighting vehicles, trucks, and supplies crowded the docks at the Polish port. Commercial passenger jets were shuttling soldiers in around the clock. It would take some time to restore the collection of machines and men into fighting units. That interval measured how long he had to get there.
Tasked by II Corps with conducting the breakthrough, General Leibnitz, the 7th Panzer Division’s commander, had left von Seelow and his “Bloody 19th” in the lead. Willi was grateful for the general’s show of confidence in his abilities, but putting the 19th Panzergrenadier first also made good military sense. As the division’s sole infantry-heavy formation, the brigade was the best suited to fighting through the difficult terrain in front of them, opening a path for the panzer brigades behind them.
At last, he laid down his pen and stood back — satisfied that the attack plan he’d drawn up was the best one possible under the circumstances. He looked up at his operations chief. “See anything I’ve missed, Major?”
Thiessen shook his head. “No, Herr Oberstleutnant.”
Around them, the headquarters bustled with final preparations for the new attack. For the better part of two days now, the 7th Panzer Division had been feinting at a strongly defended part of the American line, near Bladzim. It was good tank country, and a logical route of attack. An understrength battalion from one of the 7th’s other brigades had been ordered to look like a division, and had done a good job of it.
Meanwhile, von Seelow’s troops had another target.
A stir outside the command vehicle attracted his attention, and he stepped out to see Leibnitz arriving, along with a French brigadier general whose narrow face seemed locked in a disdainful sneer. Willi scowled, but only inside, not where the Frenchman could see it. He recognized the man: Cambon, operations officer for the II Corps.
After exchanging salutes, Leibnitz asked him. “Any last-minute problems, Willi?”
Von Seelow shook his head. “No, sir. Everything is in order. My battalions are moving toward their start lines now.”
“I hope you understand the importance of this attack, Colonel,” urged Cambon. Addressing both officers, the Frenchman continued, “I will be candid. General Montagne had grave concerns about allowing this unit to play such a critical role after its earlier failures.”
Willi fought down an urge of his own — an urge to smash the French staff officer in the face. Clearly the rear-echelon drones at corps had never forgiven him for threatening to turn his guns against the fleeing French 5th Armored back at the Warta or for short-circuiting their elaborate plans to cross the Notec by grabbing his own bridge at Rynarzewo.
Leibnitz must have seen the anger on Willi’s face because he broke in before he could reply. “I have reviewed Colonel von Seelow’s plan and it is a very good one. The colonel’s grasp of tactics is excellent, and it is his right to lead this attack.”
“As you wish, General.” Cambon turned away, apparently utterly uninterested in discussing the matter any further. He sauntered toward a group of officers clustered around a map.
Von Seelow’s eyes narrowed. If II Corps was so worried about this attack succeeding, Montagne should have met more of his requests for fire support. Instead, outside of a few scraps, this was an all-German operation. Given that, it seemed obvious that the French corps commander planned to let his German “allies” pay the blood price necessary to rip a hole in the American lines. Then, if they succeeded, the rest of II Corps stood rea
dy to pour through the gap. The French would take Gdansk, and all the credit with it.
Leibnitz moved after the Frenchman.
Willi sighed, but again only on the inside. Having the division CO looking over your shoulder was a mixed blessing. You knew you were the
Schwerpunkt,
the spearhead, but the old man got to see your every move, right and wrong. And what about the Frenchman? What kind of report was he going to make? And to whom?
Von Seelow shrugged, suddenly too fatalistic to give a damn. This was a make-or-break attack. Enemy resources were stretched to the limit, and this time he was sure there was no second defensive line. A breach would lead into an empty rear.
If his plan worked, the 7th Panzer had a chance to reach Gdansk itself, shut off the flow of reinforcements, and end the war in victory. If the attack failed, what Leibnitz or the
French thought of him wouldn’t matter, because they wouldn’t be able to win at all.
ALPHA COMPANY
They heard the artillery first, a dull booming off in the distance. Without a word spoken, Reynolds ran for the CP. Around them Polish and American soldiers raced to take up their firing positions or man their vehicles.
The Poles were the remnants of the 314th Mechanized Regiment, assigned to brigade reserve along with Alpha Company. Commanded by Major Miroslaw Prazmo, the twenty-odd armored vehicles were a poor match for the armored corps bearing down on them. It was all the armor they had.
Sergeant Andy Ford and Prazmo were already at the CP, just hanging up the field phone. “No news from Brigade. They’re checking up the line to Division.”
The Polish major cocked his head, listening for a moment. The barrage continued, sounding like thunder, but far too even, too steady. “That is not a skirmish, Captain. I must see to my men.” The short, dark-haired tanker hurried away.
The company CP was in a small equipment shed on the outskirts of town, facing south. Biala, a small farming hamlet about ten kilometers north-northeast of Swiecie, had been their home for almost two days now. The front had been quiet for all that time, crashing against the 101st, then ebbing back, and gathering strength. The Word was that the enemy would try again soon. The question was where.
Reynolds, Ford, and Corporal Adams, his radioman, moved to the doorway, scanning the landscape to the west. Silently they listened to the pounding artillery fire, literally trying to pull information out of the air.
Ford, speculating, said, “It sounds like they’re hitting Bladzim.”
Reynolds nodded absentmindedly as he studied his map. “If the Germans punch through there, we’ll have to move fast or we might be cut off.” The problem was, of course, that Colby and the men above him would be the ones who decided when Alpha Company moved. The idea that his fate was not in his own hands was something that Reynolds accepted, but he didn’t have to like it.
He fidgeted, wanting to do something, but no real action was required. Someone else was taking the heat this time, and he resigned himself to a long morning of waiting and listening — trying to sort out what was happening from confusing and fragmentary radio and telephone messages.
Whummp. Whummp. Whummp.
A new set of explosions hammered the Polish countryside, but this time close, so close that for a moment his surprised mind chided the Germans for being so far off target. A fraction of a second later, he realized his men were the targets. Then he heard the high-pitched scream of jet aircraft howling overhead. This wasn’t artillery!
He rushed outside in time to see pointed shapes curving around to the west, and billowing brown-black smoke clouds roiling over Biala, some of them over his own troops’ positions.
Seconds after seeing the planes, Reynolds heard the now-familiar sound of incoming artillery — big stuff. He dove to the ground, hugging the outside of the shed.
A rippling chain of explosions seemed to tear apart the ground itself, but trailed off after a few volleys. Reynolds raised himself to his knees, scanning the area. Now Major Prazmo’s Poles were being hit, he judged. He hoped they were all under armor.
He could hear more artillery, too, distant, but not that distant. What was going on? This didn’t fit in with an attack on Bladzim.
He scrambled back inside the CP. Ford’s face was grim, and said more than the words did. He seemed reluctant to speak.
“Report,” ordered Reynolds.
“Second Platoon’s been hit hard, Captain.” The sergeant’s clipped tone was heavy with loss. “Those were cluster bombs, and a stick landed square on top of ‘em. Three killed, about ten wounded. Lieutenant Riley is dead. Two of the wounded need immediate medevac. And one of the Humvees is a total write-off, along with the antitank missiles it carried.”
Reynolds’s chest suddenly felt tight and ice-cold. That one German air strike had just killed or wounded more of his men than he’d lost in the whole of Alpha Company’s first battle. What could he have done differently? Probably nothing, but he wasn’t sure he believed it. What should he do now? Deaths were a part of combat, but these were his men. He tried to push the questions to the back of his mind. There were still things to do.
When they called to organize the medevac, they got the word: the brigade was being hit, hard. Armored vehicles were pouring out of the woods to their front, while a storm of artillery and air strikes pounded their positions. Radars and radios were jammed. There was no question. The Germans were going to try again, harder and faster than before.
Ford had to spend considerable time calming the corporal on the other end of the phone, who from the sound of things was ready to bolt that moment for Gdansk. The sergeant finally hung up and turned to face Reynolds. “They’re coming at us full tilt, Captain. With everything, including the kitchen sink.”
Prazmo ran in, one sleeve bloody, but apparently none of it his. Reynolds gave him a quick summary of the situation, but Prazmo barely let him finish before he declared, “We have to move, Captain. Your men, mine. All of us. The Germans move fast. Damned fast. Your general may not understand this.”
Reynolds started to protest, but the Pole cut him off, pointing to a spot on the map about two kilometers east of Biala. An irregular clump of woods, several kilometers across, lay over Highway 5 as it headed north.
“We must defend here. When the Germans break through, they will try to take this place. Look,” he urged, moving his finger north along the road. “It is the last big block. Once past this, their tanks will be out in open country.”
Reynolds gauged the terrain carefully, trying to think carefully in spite of the Pole’s urging. As brigade reserve, they were responsible for a sector almost ten kilometers across. It would take time to move there, more time to set up, and if he was wrong, they’d be out of position, helplessly watching the enemy onslaught go by them.
But blocking the highway made the most sense. Other roads led off in the wrong direction or went through tighter, more constricted terrain.
Reynolds agreed, and told Ford to have the company prepare to move. They couldn’t stay here anyway, he thought. The enemy obviously knew where they were and could hit them again. This harassing fire was bad enough.
He’d be damned if he’d move without brigade’s permission, though. Adams reached the brigade TOC, but Colonel Iverson was gone — up at one of the battalion command posts. The S-3 okayed Reynolds’ recommendation, though. “Get in those woods and watch out,” he warned. His voice took on a desperate note. “The Germans aren’t maneuvering at all. They’re coming on at full speed.”
The sound of diesel engines outside drowned out the still-falling shells. Reynolds ran out in time to see T-72 tanks and BMP fighting vehicles lumbering by. As planned, most of Alpha Company clung to the sides of the tanks or rode on top, while the Polish soldiers rode inside. Prazmo’s command tank halted long enough for Reynolds, Sergeant Ford, and Corporal Adams to climb aboard, then shot off to the east.
The ride was not gentle, although Reynolds thanked God the ground was relatively flat. Praz
mo’s driver was heading pell-mell for the woodline, now a little over a kilometer away. He looked back to Biala. There was no further sign of falling artillery. Was their departure noted, then? Were they being tracked right now?
A louder-pitched whine over their heads made him look up. A flight of four AH-64 Apache gunships flashed by, low, and at top speed. A few moments later another and then another appeared. Reynolds was both heartened and concerned. That many attack birds would give the Germans something to worry about, but if they were committing the division reserve this early, just what was hitting them?
As his eye tracked the southbound helicopters, following them out of sight, more movement attracted his eye. This time he saw fighter aircraft, distant but still recognizable, and as they banked, turning toward the battlefield, he identified them as F-4 Phantom fighters, American-made, but flown by Germans. Wonderful. The Apaches would not have a free ride this time.
Suddenly he felt very exposed. He wanted to get under the trees or some sort of cover, out from under the open sky. The steel shell of the tank beneath him was hard, as unyielding as a stone. It would make a fine anvil if the Germans provided the right hammer.
Reynolds tried to organize his thoughts. Looking back and to the right, he saw the land between the woodline and Swiecie. On the northern side of town, the buildings thinned out rapidly, replaced by farmland, half-fallow, the rest planted with wheat, now half-grown.
Swiecie itself was almost smothered by masses of black and gray and white smoke. The sounds of battle were fainter and confused, but he could pick out tank guns and the crash of artillery shells. The T-72’s engine slowed as they neared the woodline, and he could hear the pop of small-arms fire as well.
The edge of the woods was sharply defined. It was an old forest, carefully tended, with little undergrowth. The trees were well spaced, mostly evergreens with a few others mixed in. Thick enough to provide cover for the infantry, they were still spaced widely enough to allow armored vehicles to pass.
