Cauldron

by Larry Bond

  While the first German outfit had blown open the breach, weakening itself in the process, this new enemy brigade had run through the open. Fresh, unbloodied, and moving fast, it would slam into the woods in a few minutes, and they didn’t have a prayer of stopping it.

  Sergeant Robbins ran over and dropped prone beside him. “My guys are scattered all over hell, Captain. We’ve got five more dead, another six or seven wounded. Both M60s are manned, but both Javelin crews are gone, wounded or missing. We only had two missiles left anyway. I’m rallying the men now.”

  Rallying what? Reynolds wondered numbly. Second Platoon couldn’t have very many men left in fighting shape. Probably fewer than a dozen. Were the other platoons in any better shape? For the first time in minutes he wondered how Major Prazmo’s Poles had fared. He glanced off to the right, toward the sector the major’s men and tanks had been holding. Columns of black smoke spiraled upward from the tangle of splintered trees.

  He grimaced. He had to regain control of his scattered company. They might have some fight left, but they had to recover. It took time to reorganize and treat the wounded — time the Germans were not going to let him have.

  Even as he started to pass orders, the whumph of an antitank missile told him Alpha Company was in the light again. The sound came from the left, and through the trees he saw part of the enemy tank formation turn tightly while one of their number fired its gun, presumably back toward the launcher.

  From the direction the Leopards were pointing, it looked like 1st Platoon had fired. At least one of the two Javelin teams he’d assigned to Caruso’s men was still intact and had missiles to fire. He felt proud that his men still had fight left in them after all they’d been through. But stacking one or two antitank teams up against an intact enemy tank formation was asking too damned much. Even David had only had to fight one Goliath.

  Another missile leapt out toward the Germans. Then another, and another, and another flashed out from under the tree — seeking targets. His pride turned to puzzlement. Altogether, almost a dozen missiles were fired, and half found marks, some far beyond Javelin range. Where the hell were those missiles coming from?

  Boots crashed through the undergrowth and he heard Andy Ford’s voice calling. He answered the hail, and the noncom came running up with a stranger in tow — an American lieutenant colonel. The man wore armor insignia on his collar tab, and a 1st Armored Division patch on his shoulder. The pair stopped and dropped to one knee next to Reynolds.

  “I’m Jim Kelly, 1st of the 37th, 3rd Brigade. I’ve got forty-two M-1s coming in on the highway. I need ground guides and places to put them, fast.”

  Reynolds found himself staring at the colonel and closed his mouth with an effort. He pointed east and asked. “Then those missiles from the other side of the highway…?”

  “Seventh Battalion of the 6th, mech infantry with Bradleys,” Kelly hurriedly explained. “My battalion will deploy west of the road.” He grabbed Reynolds’s shoulder. “If the Bradleys are already firing, we don’t have much time.”

  “But how…?”

  Kelly grinned. “Thought you boys might need some help, so our guys worked all last night to get their gear unpacked and then marched like bats out of hell to get here on time. But we’re it for now. The rest of the division’s still back on the docks.”

  Still scarcely able to believe it, Reynolds quickly passed the word, sending runners from his 2nd and 3rd platoons back to bring Kelly’s tanks forward. Within minutes, the Alpha Company soldiers reappeared, four-tank platoons following behind like monstrous pets. Reynolds spent the time keeping his people clear of the lumbering machines, at the same time deploying riflemen and machine-gun teams into the gaps between the tank platoons. There weren’t many of them left. Fewer than half the soldiers he’d taken into battle were still on their feet.

  Out in the open, he watched as German tanks and APCs maneuvered, dodging the near-continuous missile fire. Their once-neat formations were now spotted with burning vehicles, while smoke grenades popped, obscuring parts of the attacking brigade with puffs of gray-white vapor.

  Around him, dozens of M1A2 tanks took position in an uneven line. The high, thin whine of their turbine engines filled the woods. There was so much commotion that Reynolds was worried that the Germans might spot them, but experience told him otherwise. The trees would conceal the American tanks, at least until they fired. After that it wouldn’t matter.

  Reynolds was standing near one company commander’s tank, trying to hurriedly coordinate a fire plan, when the officer straightened up in his turret hatch. He listened to a voice in his headphones and replied, “Estimate seven hundred. We haven’t lased.” After another pause, he acknowledged the order he’d received with a quick “Roger.”

  “They aren’t waiting for the rest!” he called down to Reynolds. “Are your people clear?”

  Reynolds nodded. “They’d better be — ”

  An ear-splitting crash interrupted him, the sound of a tank battalion firing en masse. Pressure waves from the guns on either side buffeted him, plucking at his clothing and throwing dust and leaves in his face. The smell of gun smoke was literally rammed down his nose.

  Out in the track-torn wheat fields, the oncoming brigade suddenly blossomed with gray-black flowers. Where the shells found their mark, and at least two-thirds had, German armor burned.

  He barely had time to recover from the first blast when a second followed, almost in unison. The shock waves were knocking him off balance, and he dropped prone rather than get slammed off his feet.

  The third volley was much more ragged as faster loaders and better-coordinated crews outpaced their counterparts. By the fourth, the firing had become a continuous roar.

  Caught at short range in the open, the Germans, who had been expecting the woods to be clear, instead ran into a hail of tank-killing fire. At half a klick, the Abrams’ 120mm shells had more than enough killing power to rip through a Leopard 2 tank, or literally dismantle a thin-skinned Marder. While the Americans were in firing positions that allowed them to see and shoot out, all the Germans had to shoot at were half-concealed shapes. They had only three options: kill the enemy, find cover, or die.

  A few of the Leopards tried to return fire — sending sabot rounds crashing through the trees in front of them. Most missed, and few of the German tanks had time for a second shot. Almost as soon as it started, though, the volume of fire fell away. The Leopards and Marders died or went to ground.

  Reynolds raised his head, still in shock. Three minutes of firing had been enough to stop the German brigade cold. Through his binoculars, he counted thirty dead tanks and as many APCs — slewed crazily at all angles amid the flattened wheat. There were no signs of life or movement. EurCon’s grand attack had been stopped.

  No, he thought coldly, more than stopped. The Germans who’d come storming across those fields so boldly had been butchered. It would be a long time before the bastards recovered from this disastrous attack.

  Alpha Company had held just long enough.

  Half-deafened, Reynolds stood slowly and shook himself, like a man coming out of the water. Voices and engine noises replaced the silence, and he slowly began to realize that nobody was going to shoot at him in the immediate future.

  As he gathered what was left of his company and set about finding out what Brigade wanted him to do, the roar of jet engines through the sky brought fear back up his throat again. A glance upward, though, showed them to be American and Polish planes, loaded with bombs and headed southwest. Flight after flight screamed overhead, hugging the earth on the way to their targets.

  EurCon had reached its high-water mark. Now the tide was turning.

  HEADQUARTERS, 19TH PANZERGRENADIER BRIGADE

  The steady flood of damaged tanks and horribly wounded men filtering back from Swiecie told its own story of defeat and despair, but radioed reports confirmed the worst.

  Von Seelow put down the handset and looked at Leibnitz. His face was pale
. “That was Major Schisser. Colonel Baum is dead, along with most of the 21st Panzer. The highway north is blocked by large numbers of tanks and missile vehicles. Our men came under intense fire just short of the woods.” He swallowed hard. “Casualties are very heavy — at least forty percent, probably much more.”

  Leibnitz’s face was a mask of shock and repressed sorrow. Willi knew that the division commander and Baum had been friends for a long time. More telling than that was the destruction of the 21st Panzer Brigade — the follow on force for his own decimated command. Minutes before, Baum’s Leopards and Marders had been the leading edge of the German breakthrough, actually passing through the breach and headed full speed up the highway. Near full strength and unengaged, they should have been able to crush anything the Americans or the Poles could throw in their path. Instead, they were strewn across the open countryside — wrecked and on fire.

  Beside the 7th Panzer’s stricken leader, General Cambon exclaimed, “Those woods were supposed to be clear!” He turned to face von Seelow. “Your brigade reported overrunning the American infantry there. Obviously your incompetent fools missed something.”

  Sneering openly now, he challenged the two Germans. “Well, what will you do now?”

  Willi set his teeth.

  Leibnitz asked, “Is General Montagne willing to commit the exploitation force? We can keep the breach open…”

  “Down!” Major Thiessen screamed.

  The staff officer’s warning barely preceded the roar of enemy aircraft streaking low overhead. Bombs and cluster munitions tumbled off wing racks. Explosions rippled through the brigade area. Thick, choking smoke billowed over von Seelow and the others as they hugged the grass.

  A few moments later, the jets vanished as quickly as they had come, having brought the battle back with them to brigade headquarters. Screams and low, pain-filled moans rose from those who had been wounded.

  Willi, Leibnitz, and the Frenchman picked themselves up, brushing off the dirt and grass. As the men around them tried to regain control of the battle, Cambon declared, “We will not commit the 5th Armored without knowing more about the enemy positions north of Swiecie. It would be suicide to send more units into the same ambush.”

  The Frenchman pointed to the map. “Here. Take your 20th Brigade and probe northward. Once you’ve pinpointed the enemy concentrations, we will decide whether to attack or bypass them.”

  Leibnitz stiffened. “Impossible. The 20th is only at half-strength. That’s why we didn’t use it in the attack. It’s out of position as well.” His voice rose to a challenge. “Why waste precious hours shifting my last brigade when you have a full-strength French division, ready and waiting, with their motors running. Send it through the gap.”

  Cambon sniffed. “Ridiculous. The corps’ plan is quite clear, General Leibnitz. ‘The exploitation force will be committed only after the 7th Panzer has secured the breach,’” he quoted. “It’s clear your men were not up to the task. I told the general that you Germans were fit only for garrison troops.”

  That did it. Willi von Seelow’s eyes flashed and he nodded.

  “True. In the last war we garrisoned Paris, Lyons, Cherbourg…”

  Astonishingly, Leibnitz grinned.

  “I won’t stand here and listen to this!” Cambon spluttered.

  “Then leave,” replied Leibnitz calmly. “We’ve fought hard, and taken the losses to prove it. Those losses were justified only if the attack succeeded.” He stood close to the Frenchman, almost nose-to-nose. “And it won’t succeed now, not without help that you French bastards are unwilling to give. If that is true, then this battle, this war, is not worth the loss of another German soldier.”

  Evidently shocked by the sudden turn of events, Cambon strode off. Once the Frenchman was out of earshot, Leibnitz turned to face von Seelow, his anger already sliding back to sadness. “Pull your troops back to the start line, Willi, and pass the order to Major Schisser as well. There’s good defensive terrain. We’ll reorganize there, and begin planning a fighting retreat, all the way back to Germany if need be.”

  In one part of Poland at least, the Franco-German alliance was dead.

  CHAPTER 36

  Pressure Points

  JULY 2 — PARIS

  Unwilling to believe what he’d just read, Nicolas Desaix stared down at the message form he held crumpled in his hand. He looked up at Michel Guichy. “Montagne is sure of this?”

  “Yes, very sure,” the Defense Minister growled. “This man Leibnitz and his subordinates have refused all of II Corps’ orders to renew the attack. They’ve even abandoned all the ground gained this morning. They may be preparing to fall back further.”

  “Boche bastards!” The coarse epithet felt so good rolling off Desaix’s tongue that he repeated it. He tossed the message form aside. “Does Berlin know anything about this situation yet?”

  Guichy shrugged. “Who knows? II Corps controls all land-line communications access to the 7th Panzer, but the Germans do have radios.”

  “Damn.” By rights, the German Chancellor and his cabinet ministers should be equally appalled by their panzer division’s refusal to obey EurCon orders. Unfortunately Desaix was no longer sure he could predict Heinz Schraeder’s reactions. Russia’s state television had begun broadcasting reports of Kaminov’s secret negotiations with France. Since then, Berlin’s willingness to accept French political and military advice had perceptibly diminished. And in recent telephone conversations, Schraeder’s tone had grown notably tepid, even cold.

  Another troubling thought struck him. “What about Montagne’s own German staff officers? Who controls them?”

  “Unimportant, Nicolas.” The Defense Minister shook his head. “Our people already have General Wismar and his subordinates in ‘precautionary custody.’”

  Desaix relaxed minutely. Though somewhat high-handed, General Montagne’s prompt action had at least blocked one path by which the 7th Panzer’s mutiny might have spread. Once this “insurrection” was snuffed out, apologies, compensation, and perhaps even a judicious promotion or two should soothe any ruffled German feathers.

  He pursed his lips. “Very well. What other measures have been taken to isolate this Leibnitz and his soldiers?”

  Guichy rattled them off in quick succession. “Troops from General Belliard’s 5th Armored are posted on all roads leading into the 7th Panzer’s sector. And all supply deliveries have been halted.” He smiled grimly. “After all, if these German cowards won’t attack, they certainly don’t need any fuel or ammunition. Or food.”

  Desaix nodded his approval. “Good. Good.” Then he frowned. Isolation alone would not solve this problem. Not in time. With more and more American and British troops pouring into Poland, EurCon could not afford to wait long enough to starve the 7th Panzer Division into submission. He said as much to Guichy.

  The other man spread his hands. “Then what do you propose we do?”

  What indeed? Desaix found himself wishing his enemies would end this mutiny for him. U.S. and British commandos and Polish guerrillas were already making life hell for other German and French outposts scattered across occupied Poland. So why couldn’t they hit Leibnitz and his rebels, too? An idea dawned. A bold scheme — one whose rewards might well be outweighed by its risks. Or so a more cautious man might say. But, with other, far more carefully laid schemes collapsing around his ears, Nicolas Desaix was in a mood to gamble.

  He leaned forward and bluntly outlined his plan to bring the mutinous German troops to heel. Army units in any semblance of order were always rigidly hierarchical. The junior officers, the sergeants, and the common soldiers were all schooled in obedience. If Montagne could lop off the 7th Panzer’s upper echelons quickly enough, those who were left should fall in line.

  Guichy heard him out in stunned silence. When he’d finished, the big Defense Minister breathed out, dismayed. “My God, Nicolas. If anything went wrong… or if anybody talked…” He shook his head. “The effects could be catastr
ophic.”

  “Exactly.” Desaix hardened his voice. “That is precisely why we must not fail and why no one can be left in a position to talk. You understand?”

  The Defense Minister nodded, still shaken.

  “Then I suggest you transmit the appropriate orders to General Montagne. And that will be that.” Desaix tossed the message form into a wastebasket — the one his aides emptied into a shredder and then an incinerator at the end of each working day.

  After Guichy left, he sat back, mulling over the rest of the war situation. His mouth turned downward. At every turn, his best efforts had been thwarted by bad luck or incompetent subordinates. First Duroc’s bumbled attempt to crush the Hungarian resistance. Then the overconfident generals who had promised complete victory in Poland in days — not weeks of futile warfare. Admiral Gibierge’s wasted nuclear strike. The destruction of his nation’s precious nuclear deterrent force. The catastrophe in Moscow. And now this failed attack on Gdansk.

  Abruptly Desaix slammed his fist down. Idiots! Fools! He glared at the map laid out across one side of his desk. Seizing the Polish port was still the only way to end this war on a victorious note. He could see that, even if the military men could not.

  His intelligence experts still insisted there were only two Combined Forces armored divisions in Poland. A new offensive, one backed by fresh EurCon troops, might still succeed in reaching the city. But where could he find those fresh troops?

  Not from Germany. Schraeder’s government had only a few Territorial battalions and one panzergrenadier division left to guard its own borders and military installations. A month of war had bled the once-mighty German Army dry. A thin, humorless smile flitted across Desaix’s face. At least the fighting had brought one positive result.

  France was in better shape. She still had her fifty-thousand-man-strong Force d’Action Rapide — the airmobile, marine, airborne, and light armored troops of her rapid deployment force. His smile faded. Those soldiers were needed to defend military posts against enemy commando raids. Unfortunately they were also needed to help hold down an increasingly restive French populace. As the fighting dragged on, there were more signs of trouble brewing in the big cities — Paris, Lyons, Lille, and the rest. And the gendarmes were again showing a reluctance to suppress civil disorder.