by Larry Bond
The once-quiet compound burst into activity. Equipment rattled and boots thudded into the soft, rain-soaked ground as the panzergrenadiers shook themselves into close formation.
Von Seelow acknowledged the transmission, then took his own place in line. Silence settled over the compound. Some men were shivering. The late winter wind had a sharper bite when you couldn’t move to stay warm.
Their wait was mercifully short. Only moments after the brigade staff and the battalion took their places, a dark dot appeared just over the skyline, quickly growing into a clattering gray-green helicopter. It flew low overhead and then circled, sliding downward toward the marked landing area.
Even though the brigade staff stood a discreet distance away, Willi had to brace himself against the Puma’s rotor blast.
The troop carrier settled heavily onto the helipad, kicking up a fine, cold gray mist. A descending whine matched the slowing rotor blades. When they stopped turning, the Puma’s door slid to one side, and Général de Corps d’Armée Etienne Montagne alighted.
As Montagne’s foot touched the ground, shouts of “Achtung!” echoed across the parade ground. Out of the corner of his eye, von Seelow watched the 191st snap to attention.
He studied the new corps commander. Montagne was tall, so tall that he had to crouch to get out of the helicopter. Once on the ground, he carried himself carefully erect, ramrod-straight. In his late fifties, his hair was almost completely gray, with just a few streaks of brown poking out from under his service kepi.
Seeing the general’s distinctive headgear sent a strange feeling through von Seelow. The French kepi was an almost perfect flat-topped cylinder, about six inches high, with a small straight visor. In Montagne’s case it was dark blue, generously decorated with two gold rings of oak leaves, his four-star rank in a wreath on the front, and a red stripe around the crown. In various forms, it had been worn by the Army of France for a hundred years. Nothing else was so distinctly French.
Another officer stepped down, not as tall and much darker. Willi recognized General Alfred Wismar, a German and another tanker. Assigned as deputy commander for the new II Corps, Wismar did not look particularly happy with his new assignment. General Karl Leibnitz, commanding officer of the 7th Panzer Division, trailed along behind his two superiors.
Colonel Bremer braced and saluted the group. The two German generals hung back while Montagne cheerfully returned Bremer’s salute.
The two chatted briefly, in passable German, Willi noted, before Bremer guided the tall Frenchman down the line of brigade staff officers. Greeting each one warmly, the corps commander seemed careful to pronounce each man’s name properly.
It was his turn. The Frenchman had a firm handshake and his dark brown eyes seemed as friendly as his manner. Von Seelow let himself feel a little more optimistic. Maybe this won’t be such a disaster, after all, he thought.
With the senior officers following and a burly-looking German sergeant taking notes, Montagne moved on to conduct a quick, perfunctory inspection of the 191st. The general strode confidently, almost arrogantly, past the assembled battalion, stopping only occasionally to exchange a few words with one of the officers or for a closer look at the soldiers or their gear.
Von Seelow’s first favorable impression faded slightly as he watched the French general examine a panzergrenadier’s weapon. The G3A3 assault rifle was older, longer, and heavier than the ultramodern MAS rifle used by French forces. Everyone in the Bundeswehr knew it was outdated, but budget cuts in the early 1990s had slowed production of the army’s high-tech replacement, the Heckler & Koch G11. Even so, the G3 was still a ragged, reliable firearm, perfectly capable in the hands of a well-trained soldier. So there seemed little justification for Montagne’s contemptuous glance when he tossed the rifle back to the blank-faced grenadier. Or for a later comment that some of their Marder personnel carriers seemed “a little long in the tooth.” Considering that the comparable French APC, the AMX-10P, was almost as old, the remark seemed unnecessarily snide.
His inspection apparently over, Montagne marched back to a small raised platform and microphone near his grounded helicopter — trailed by a frowning group of German officers.
“Soldiers of the 19th Panzergrenadier Brigade, I greet you! Today marks an historic moment, a moment of glory for all Europe! For France! And for Germany!”
Von Seelow stirred uneasily. The general’s words were spoken in accented German, but the underlying posturing seemed all too French. With old customs and forms tainted by Nazism’s absurd melodrama, the Bundeswehr cultivated a deliberately low-key professionalism.
“I look forward with great eagerness to the coming years.
You and the other men of this division show great promise. And I am sure that, with hard training and constant devotion to duty, you will all become fine troops — soldiers for the future.”
From his position behind the Frenchman, Willi could see the carefully concealed resentment rippling through the ranks. He felt it himself. Who did this general think he was dealing with? These men were seasoned volunteers, not callow conscripts.
“In the coming months, my staff and I will institute a series of refinements to your tactical doctrines. New thinking is always hard, but I promise you that the advantages of these reforms will be readily apparent to each and every one of you — even to the lowliest private! And with these new tactics will come greatly increased fighting efficiency and combat power.”
No wonder Wismar looks unhappy, Willi thought. We are schoolmasters being taken to task by the students. As if the French could teach Germans anything about armor doctrine… My God, Rommel himself had once commanded the 7th Panzer!
Von Seelow’s unspoken concerns crystallized into certain dismay while Montagne thundered on about the bright future waiting for the combined Franco-German armed forces. Otto Yorck was right. This man was a disaster. The kicker came when the French general spoke about what he termed “simple administrative matters.” His language, so falsely dramatic before, suddenly turned vague and bureaucratic.
“Naturally, new force structures and new defense commitments require new dispositions. Accordingly, the Confederation’s Council of Nations has approved the redeployment of certain units. Including this one. When our II Corps becomes fully operational early next month, it will begin assuming key defense responsibilities for the region around Cottbus.
“To prepare for that, the 7th Panzer Division will send advance parties to that area next week. Your division’s leading elements will transfer during the last half of this month. I expect this entire corps to be at its new posts within six months.”
Willi was thunderstruck. Redeploy three divisions all the way to the other side of Germany in six months? Certainly it was possible to march units further in just a fraction of that time, but this was a permanent move. Ammo dumps, fuel depots, and spare-parts stockpiles would all have to be packed up, shipped, and then unloaded by the corps’s supply troops. Several thousand armored vehicles would need special maintenance support. And nearly fifty thousand soldiers and their families would have to find barracks and housing in and around the eastern German town. Better than most, he remembered what those old Soviet-built facilities were like. Bad when they were built, they must be almost unlivable now. The men were going to need careful handling. Who was…
Von Seelow suddenly noticed that both Leibnitz and Bremer looked as stunned as he did. Was this a total surprise to everyone? He studied Wismar’s face. Montagne must have told his deputy, but the German general looked even unhappier.
And why move them in the first place? The Bundeswehr only had three corps in its entire army. Stretched thinly, I Corps, the 7th Panzer’s present parent organization, was responsible for maintaining order over much of central and western Germany. Now, less than a week after this new European Confederation took shape, its leaders were apparently planning to cram almost the same firepower into a single narrow sector on the Polish border.
Von Seelow had se
en the news reports of rising unrest inside Poland as oil supplies ran short. But that hardly seemed a justification for this massive troop transfer. The Poles weren’t a military threat. Nor were there any signs that the Russians were emerging from their self-imposed cycle of martial law and military purges.
He shook his head slowly. Whatever was going on, it didn’t look good.
MARCH 13 — 11th FIGHTER REGIMENT OPERATIONS CENTER, WROCLAW, POLAND
First Lieutenant Tadeusz Wojcik noticed the change as soon as he walked inside out of the damp, chilly morning. An air of quiet concern and steady purpose filled the regimental operations building.
The long concrete building was the nerve center for the 11th’s three fighter squadrons. Not only were the regiment’s administrative offices here, but downstairs in the specially hardened basement, radio and radar operators managed a slice of Polish airspace stretching from the Czech Republic in the south to the border with Germany in the west. The camouflaged headquarters bunkers and buildings housing the 3rd National Air Defense Corps were right across the airfield. Responsible for all of southwestern Poland, the 3rd’s staff officers and senior commanders controlled the 11th Fighter Regiment, several other aircraft units, and a mixed bag of missile units — some using American-made anti-aircraft missiles, others still equipped with old Soviet-manufactured SA-2 and SA-3 missiles.
Normally the ops center was a cheerful, busy place. Today everyone’s expression was grim. Tad stopped the first pilot he saw, Lieutenant Stanislaw Gawlik. The thin, hawk-nosed pilot looked worried.
“Stan, what’s wrong? Somebody have an incident?” Nobody used the word “crash,” as if avoiding the word could avoid the actual event.
Gawlik shook his head. “No. Take a look at the intel board. More Confederation units are moving into eastern Germany. Ground forces, aircraft, the works. The French and Germans claim it’s just part of a routine ‘redeployment.’”
Wojcik half grinned. “Yeah, right. That’s so absurd it’s insulting. It’s all pressure to get us to knuckle under.”
The other lieutenant shook his head decisively. “Never. Look at what they’ve done to Hungary and Romania and the others. Economic colonies, with their people working in foreign-owned factories for pitiful wages. Puppet governments, secret police. We were under the Soviet boot too long to want someone else’s foot on our necks.” There was a grim light in his eyes when he spoke about the Russians.
Gawlik’s worried look returned as he continued. “First this damned oil embargo and now these troop movements. It’s like we’re being hemmed in on all sides. The government’s already protested, and the President and Prime Minister are both going to speak on television tonight. But I don’t see what else we can do. Any chance we’re getting more aid from the Americans? Or from Britain? Have you heard anything?”
Everyone assumed that Tad’s American birth somehow gave him an inside track on developments in the West.
He shrugged. “Nothing new. Not that I’ve heard about anyway.”
Tad wasn’t really sure what more Poland’s two faraway allies could do. Protected by USN and Royal Navy warships, their tankers were already pumping oil and gas ashore as fast as they could. Beyond that, several dozen weapons experts and training teams were already busy helping his country’s armed forces make the difficult transition away from old-style Soviet equipment and tactics. Short of actually stationing U.S. troops on Polish soil, there weren’t many other options open.
Gawlik seemed briefly disappointed, but he rallied fast. “Better check the board. You’re flying today. In fact, most of us are.”
The older man glanced at his watch. “I’ll be up in an hour. Good luck.” The lieutenant put real meaning into the trite expression.
The assignments board told the story. Pairs of F-15 Eagles were flying along the border on a twenty-four hour basis. A map showed the new patrol zones. The 11th’s area of responsibility was a two-hundred-kilometer section of the frontier, running from Kostryzn south to the southwest corner of Poland.
Tad noticed with interest that the border patrol track ran right next to the frontier, not back a few dozen kilometers as standard tactics and peacetime procedures might suggest. Any turn west would put them in German territory. The lack of maneuvering room meant this was a “fence” exercise, intended to tell these German and French bastards that the Polish Air Force was ready to block any movement into its territory.
Wojcik smiled at his own eagerness to climb inside the cockpit. With money and aviation fuel so tight, he’d only been able to fly once every two or three days. Now he’d fly at least daily, and with the German border right in his face. In an odd sort of way, things were looking up at the same time they were looking down.
* * *
Tad hooked up with his wingman, Lieutenant Sylwester Zawadzki after lunch. After a routine physical check, they both collected their maps and charts and then walked briskly down the hall to the regiment’s ready room.
Pilots and a full complement of staff officers packed the ready room — sitting in battered wooden chairs facing a map-filled wall or standing along the other walls. The regiment’s operations, intelligence, and meteorology officers sat off to one side, each waiting his turn to give a quick briefing. Even the 11th’s short, cherub-faced commander was there, standing with a knot of pilots just back from a mission.
Colonel Kadlubowski spotted them in the doorway and motioned them over. He looked tired, and Zawadzki whispered that the colonel had already flown two missions that morning himself.
“You boys are up next?”
“Yes, sir.”
The colonel clapped Tad on the shoulder and nodded toward Zawadzki. “Be careful up there, gentlemen. There’s a lot of activity on the western side of the border. Don’t start a war, but,” and his voice grew hard, “don’t give them an inch of our airspace.”
“Yes, sir.”
As the colonel turned away, the 11th’s operations officer took his place, flanked by two strangers. The two Eagle pilots introduced themselves to a major and captain who were the pilot and copilot of a “special electronics” An-26. Wojcik noticed that their flight suits did not have name tags, or any unit insignia. The two men were friendly enough, but their monosyllabic answers soon got the message across: “Don’t ask questions, because we won’t answer them.”
The nameless major was their mission commander, and would fly his aircraft as required. The two Eagles were going along to make sure he wasn’t bothered.
The operations officer gave them the correct radio frequencies, call signs, and other routine information. Their CAP station was Yellow Station, and they were Yellow Five and Six. They were set to relieve Yellow Seven and Eight. If they needed to communicate with the Curl, it was “Black flight.”
All the intelligence officer would say was that there had been sightings of German aircraft very close to the border. “Expect them to pay attention to you.”
He also emphasized the correct setting for their IFF equipment. Polish-manned Patriot and Hawk SAM batteries were now deploying along the nation’s frontiers almost as fast as they could be unloaded, and surface-to-air missiles travel too fast to allow time for explanations.
Tad and Zawadzki left the ops building with the major and his copilot and walked to the flight line, just a short distance away. The Curl was parked close by, so the two Eagle drivers stopped for a moment to look over the elderly “bus.”
Painted in drab green and brown colors, the twin-engine, turboprop transport plane had long, straight wings and a tall tail. It normally carried forty paratroops or a six-ton cargo load, but the cargo compartment on this one was filled with electronic equipment and seats for operators. Odd-shaped dielectric patches covered its surface. A long metal “canoe” ran half the length of the plane’s belly, and even its nose looked subtly different. Some of the gray insulation patches looked recent, and Tad suspected that some of America’s latest military aid shipments had included Western electronics upgrades for these
“ferret” aircraft.
Their two companions headed for the top-secret plane without saying another word. Tad and his wingman exchanged a quick grin at that. Habits of perpetual silence must be hard to break. The two Eagle drivers trotted over to their F-15s.
They taxied to the end of the thousand-meter concrete strip, the Curl leading.
It was a cold, gusty day, with scattered low clouds a few thousand meters high. Drenched by the remnants of an overnight storm, the runway was still wet in spots. A hexagonal pattern stood out clearly on the damp concrete, showing the joints between the massive blocks making up the Russian-style runway. They were laid so that if the surface was cratered by enemy air attacks, any damaged sections could be quickly lifted out and replaced by spares. Of course, all those joints made for a rough ride on takeoff and landing.
The An-26 turned onto the runway and stopped, its brakes set. Its engines increased their pitch, shaking the wings at full power. After a few moments, even the fuselage started to vibrate, and the Curl’s pilot released his brakes. Rolling forward, the big turboprop thundered down the long concrete strip, quickly gathering speed. It soared aloft with half the runway left.
Even fully loaded with fuel and missiles, the two Eagles used less runway than their larger, slower companion. Tad’s airspeed rose quickly once contact with the earth was broken.
There beneath him was the An-26, its brown and green camouflage blending with the drab gray-brown landscape below. The lumbering plane cruised at half the normal speed of its two nimbler companions, no more than 240 knots or so. Chopping his throttle almost to idle, Tad extended his Eagle’s flaps and tried to think slow thoughts.
The flight from Wroclaw to the border took about twenty minutes, with Wojcik and Zawadzki scissoring and circling over the ferret plane, trying to keep it and each other in sight.
Tad tried to sort out the mass of information blanketing his cockpit display. Right now his RWR was tuned to receive only fire control and weapons radars, immediate threats to an Eagle in flight. Even so, there were so many signals showing that he was sure some of them must be coming from other airborne friendlies. No such luck. All the bearings and identifications flickering across his scope matched hostile radars.