by Larry Bond
Whatever Montagne and his French staff officers expected, the 19th Panzergrenadier Brigade would do its damnedest to seize the Rynarzewo bridge intact.
C COMPANY, POLISH 421ST MECHANIZED INFANTRY BATTALION, RYNARZEWO GARRISON
Rynarzewo, a tiny cluster of brick and wood-frame houses split in two by the highway, lay on the south side of the Notec River. Two buildings dominated the little village — an old red brick church and a two-story, concrete-block building that served as a combination post office, library, and town hall. Outside the village, fields, pastures, isolated farmhouses, and apple orchards stretched almost as far as the eye could see. Woods stood dark in the distance. A narrow ribbon of blue, one of the Notec’s tributary streams, snaked through the green and brown landscape before cutting in front of the village and under the highway.
Two kilometers west of Rynarzewo, the twisted remains of a railway bridge lay half in and half out of the river. French jets had dropped the steel-girder span with laser-guided bombs several days before as part of the effort to keep Polish reinforcements from reaching Poznan.
But the highway bridge was still up. Troop carriers, supply trucks, and other vehicles fleeing the approaching EurCon Army lumbered across in a never-ending stream. They were the tail end of a withdrawing army and it showed. Though never beaten decisively in a stand-up fight, three weeks of almost continuous retreat were starting to take a toll on Polish morale. Heads turned apprehensively toward the south whenever sounds of gunfire crackled above the roar of traffic. Although friendly troops were still screening the retreat, everyone knew the French and Germans couldn’t be far away.
Combat engineers swarmed over the span, dodging APCs and trucks as they frantically wired it for demolition. Several hung over the sides, dangling from climbing ropes while they placed charges against the concrete piers supporting the roadway itself.
Two hundred meters from the southern end of the bridge, a short, brown-haired Polish officer hurried from house to house on the village outskirts, checking his defenses. Captain Konrad Polinski commanded the mechanized infantry company ordered to hold Rynarzewo while the engineers finished their work.
As an experienced soldier, Polinski was not happy with his company’s tactical situation. He didn’t like fighting with a river at his back — especially when the only way across was liable to go up in smoke at any minute. His small detachment was not strong enough to defend the village against a determined EurCon attack. Detailed at the last minute, C Company hadn’t had time to lay mines and barbed wire, or to dig holes with good overhead protection.
There were supposed to be T-72s stationed in the forest across the river, but that was really too far away to do much good. Rynarzewo’s buildings would also block much of their field of fire. Even the best tank gunners in the world couldn’t hit targets they couldn’t see. He couldn’t even count on reinforcements. The 421st’s other mechanized infantry companies were several kilometers beyond the river, reorganizing and refitting before coming back to form a defensive line.
The captain stopped behind a garden wall and raised his binoculars. There, at the very edge of his vision, pillars of black smoke billowed skyward. Half-hidden beneath a thick brown mustache, his mouth turned down in a sudden grimace. That was a full-fledged battle raging out there, something far more serious than the usual isolated sniping. EurCon’s leading elements must be trying to smash through the covering force guarding the retreat.
His radioman, a skinny, eighteen-year-old corporal, confirmed that. “Sir! Tango Foxtrot reports contact with a strong German unit near Kolaczkowo! Tanks and APCs both!”
Polinski swore inwardly. Kolaczkowo was the closest village — a tiny hamlet barely four kilometers down the highway. If the enemy advance guard was already there, they could be on top of him in minutes. “Order all platoons to stand to!”
“Yes, sir.”
The Polish captain spun around to look back at the vehicle-choked bridge behind him. The engineers were still hard at work. How much more time did they need? More important, how much more time would the Germans give them?
A COMPANY, 194TH PANZER BATTALION, NEAR KOLACZKOWO
Smoke from burning buildings, burning vehicles, and turret-mounted grenade launchers had turned the battlefield outside Kolaczkowo into a gray, hazy, nightmarish swirl of deadly, split-second encounters.
“Veer right! Right!” Lieutenant Werner Gerhardt screamed, already hoarse from yelling orders above the deafening noise all around. He tightened his grip on the hatch coaming as his mammoth Leopard 2 roared out of its own smoke screen and swung sharply to avoid a wrecked vehicle dead ahead. Fifty-five tons of steel moving at high speed clipped the burning Luchs scout car, sending it tumbling out of the way in a high-pitched, grinding shriek of tearing metal.
Another tank, a Polish T-72, appeared almost directly ahead, trundling backward in a tangle of flapping camouflage netting as it reversed out from behind a farmhouse. Its 125mm cannon still pointed away from the German lieutenant’s Leopard.
“Gunner! Target at one o’clock!” Gerhardt squeezed the turret override, guiding the Leopard’s main gun around himself.
“Sabot up!”
“Fire!”
Hit point-blank, the T-72 slid sideways and exploded. Steel splinters thrown by the blast spanged off the Leopard’s own armor and screamed over Gerhardt’s head. He ducked and then stood higher, looking from side to side for new dangers.
More German tanks emerged from the smoke, strung out in a long fighting line. The lieutenant tallied them rapidly while still searching for signs of the enemy. Counting his own Leopard, ten of A Company’s twelve vehicles had survived the tank duel.
As the smoke cleared, he could see that the Polish rear guard and Captain Brandt’s scout company had been far less fortunate. Destroyed T-72s, BMPs, and German Luchs scout cars covered the fields on both sides of the highway, facing in every direction in mute testimony to the confused, savage nature of the short battle. Only his own tanks were still moving.
Gerhardt switched his radio to the brigade frequency. “Top Cat One, this is Falconer One.”
“Go ahead, Falconer.” Major Thiessen’s voice sounded distorted, wavering in and out between bursts of static. The 19th’s headquarters unit must be on the move.
Gerhardt released the transmit button on his mike. “We’ve cleared the first village. Now proceeding toward the river.”
“Acknowledged, Falconer. Where is Prowler One?”
The lieutenant stared out across the battlefield and swallowed hard. He looked away. “Captain Brandt and his men are dead, Top Cat. All of them are dead.”
Von Seelow’s own calm, determined voice came on line. There was no time now to mourn Brandt and his men. Controlling his emotions, he said, “Understood, Lieutenant. Can you continue the attack?”
Gerhardt gripped the turret ring, regaining his own control. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Von Seelow’s voice took on a sharper edge. “Keep moving, Falconer. Press them hard. Don’t let them regroup! Predator One is right behind you.”
Gerhardt stared down the highway. The colonel was correct. He could already see the 192nd Panzergrenadier Battalion’s infantry-filled Marders pouring into Kolaczkowo in column. He signed off and relayed the necessary orders to his crews.
Alpha Company’s ten surviving Leopard 2s rumbled north toward the bridge at Rynarzewo.
C COMPANY, RYNARZEWO GARRISON
Polinski breathed a faint sigh of relief. The last canvas-sided trucks, BMPs, and GAZ jeeps were finally inching their way toward the Rynarzewo bridge, and the black ribbon of highway stretched away empty to the south. Even the sounds of firing had stopped. Captain Kubiak’s covering force must have stopped the German probes cold. Good. The engineers still hadn’t finished wiring the bridge and every extra minute counted.
He glanced at the radioman hovering nervously beside him.
“Contact Tango Foxtrot. Ask them how much longer they can hold before handing off to
us.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Polinski lifted his binoculars again. Plumes of bluish-black exhaust appeared behind a low rise roughly a kilometer away. There were tanks moving out there, diesel engines straining even on the shallow uphill grade. He frowned. Why hadn’t Kubiak’s T-72s reported in before falling back so far?
“Sir! I can’t raise Tango Foxtrot!” the radioman stammered, aghast., “Jesus Christ.” Polinski saw a line of armored vehicles appear like magic along the crest of the rise he’d been scanning. Large, angular turrets and dark green, brown, and black camouflage schemes identified them as enemy Leopards — not Polish T-72s. His mouth dropped open in shock. They were under attack!
The German tanks fired, opening up in one long, rippling salvo that sent shell after shell screaming low overhead. Trucks crowding the bridge approaches on both sides of the river began going up in flames. The Leopards were methodically working their way from front to back — gutting trapped vehicles with high-explosive rounds.
Horrified, Polinski let the field glasses fall down around his neck. He whirled and grabbed the corporal’s arm. “Come on!” he roared, tugging the young soldier toward the concrete-block building serving as the company’s command post. “Back to the CP!”
They raced down the street, running hard past blazing trucks and jeeps. Torn bodies, jagged, blast-warped shards of metal, and shredded truck tires littered the pavement in front of them.
Polinski threw himself through the post office door and took the stairs up two at a time. He skidded into the second-floor library room serving as his company headquarters unit. Maps and a longer-range radio sat on one of the reading tables. The sandbags, bookcases, and books piled across its windows offered a measure of protection against small-arms fire and shell fragments.
A worried-looking lieutenant, his second-in-command, looked up from the radio with evident relief. “Captain! Battalion’s on the line!”
The captain grabbed the headset. “Polinski here!”
“This is Major Korytzki, Captain. What the hell is happening over there?”
Polinski scowled. He loathed the major, and he knew the feeling was mutual. A born staff man, Zbigniew Korytzki had taken charge when the battalion’s old commander was killed near Poznan. Since then his combat troops and line officers had scarcely ever seen the man. He always seemed to lead from far to the rear, preferably from inside an armored command vehicle. “We’re being fired on by at least one company of enemy armor, Major! I request reinforcements.”
“Impossible,” Korytzki said crisply. “You have antitank weapons. I suggest you use them. In any event, you must hold your position until the engineers have completed their work. Remember your duty, Captain! And keep me informed. Korytzki, out.”
Polinski ripped the headset off and tossed it back to his executive officer. He mastered his temper with difficulty. “See if you can raise the CO of that tank outfit across the bridge. Tell him we need help to claw a few Leopards off our backs.”
The lieutenant nodded and turned to obey him.
“Sir!” The shout came from a sergeant watching out one of the windows. “Enemy infantry carriers approaching — many of them!”
Polinski peered out through a slit they’d left in their makeshift barricades. German Marder fighting vehicles were visible now, rolling down off the same low rise held by their own tanks. Twenty at least. Probably more. Wonderful. They were being hit by a battalion-plus of panzergrenadiers. He whirled toward his radioman. “All platoons! Open fire!”
The Marders roared closer, charging across the open fields. They fanned out while rolling forward. The captain swore out loud, suddenly realizing the Germans were deploying from column into line right in front of his face. Cocky bastards!
Three TOW missiles leapt toward the Marders. Two hit their targets and exploded. Further along the line, Polish BMP-Is opened up with 73mm cannon, pumping HEAT — high-explosive antitank — rounds out at the rate of eight per minute. More German troop carriers slewed sideways and began burning.
Retaliation came swiftly.
In quick succession, accurate fire from the overwatching Leopards and 25mm rounds spray-fired from the Marders fireballed two of C Company’s three TOW-Humvees and smashed a third of its BMPs into smoking ruin. More shells slammed into several of the houses on Rynarzewo’s outskirts. Rubble spilled out into the narrow village streets.
Polinski stared out through the firing slit, straining to see the enemy assault wave through all the smoke and dust. Were they going to try driving right through his defenses? No! The surviving Marders were stopping in whatever cover they could find — behind farmhouses and gentle knolls, inside orchards, and behind their own destroyed comrades. Soldiers tumbled out of each fighting vehicle. Now that most of the Germans were within four hundred meters of his line, they were continuing their attack dismounted.
The Polish captain’s eyes focused on the stretch of relatively open ground the enemy infantry would have to cover. He bared his teeth and turned to his second-in-command. “Contact the artillery, Jozef! Tell them we have a fire mission!”
192ND PANZERGRENADIER BATTALION, OUTSIDE RYNARZEWO
Von Seelow hung on grimly as the Marder he was riding in swerved suddenly, dropped into a ditch, and bounced out — all without slowing down.
Whammm!
A near miss rocked the speeding vehicle. Fragments and pieces of shattered rock rattled against its side armor. Even with the Marder’s hatches closed, the noise was ear-shattering, almost maddening in its intensity.
Von Seelow spoke into the Marder’s intercom. “How much further, Gerd?” Another close explosion punctuated his query.
“Not far, Herr Oberstleutnant!” the vehicle’s commander shouted. “I’ve got Predator One in sight!”
“Good. Take us right up next to him.”
The Marder jolted through another drainage ditch, bumped over what felt like a low wall, and braked to a stop. Without the engine turning over at full power, the drumming roar of the Polish barrage was even louder and more menacing.
Moving rapidly now, von Seelow unbuckled his safety belt and got up, crouching to clear the low armored ceiling. He pulled a G3 assault rifle out of the clips beside his seat. Captain Meyer, one of his aides, and Private Neumann, his radioman, imitated him, checking their own gear and personal weapons. Both tugged at their Kevlar body armor, assuring themselves that the flak jackets were securely fastened.
Willi put his hand on the button that would drop the Marder’s rear ramp and took a last look around the troop compartment. “Ready, gentlemen?”
They nodded.
“All right. Remember, spread out right away, don’t bunch up. Then run like hell for von Olden’s vehicle! Understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Despite the standard and expected response, Meyer sounded uncertain. Sweat beaded his high pale forehead. “But I must ask you once more to remain here… in relative safety. Let me bring Lieutenant Colonel von Olden to you instead.”
“No.” Willi shook his head firmly. There were times when a leader had to put himself at risk to get results. This was one of those times. He took several quick breaths and punched the release button. “Go!”
The ramp clanged open.
They were in a farmyard. Waist-high stone walls enclosed a dilapidated wooden barn and the wreckage of a small, wood-frame house blown apart by a Polish artillery shell. Flames danced eerily in the ruins, licking up the two walls still standing. Near the barn, an old tractor lay toppled on its side. A sow and her piglets lay dead inside a muddy sty.
Beyond the farmyard, gently rolling fields planted in oats and rye stretched toward Rynarzewo. Burning German vehicles dotted the fields. Hundreds of men wearing helmets and camouflage battle dress lay prone among the standing grain, cowering as shells rained down all around them. The Polish barrage had pinned the 192nd Panzergrenadier Battalion in place.
Klaus von Olden’s command Marder lay just a few meters away, partially veiled by the smo
ke, Willi headed in that direction, running flat out.
Another salvo arced out of the sky with a freight-train roar.
“Incoming!” Willi shouted. He threw himself flat next to von Olden’s vehicle.
Whammm! Whammm! Whammm!
The ground rocked, bounced, and rolled as shell after shell slammed to earth just outside the farmyard and exploded in a hail of flame and deadly steel splinters.
With his ears still ringing, Willi spat to clear the taste in his mouth and got to his feet. He used the butt of his rifle to hammer on the Marder’s armored flank. “Open up!”
The command vehicle’s ramp fell open, exposing an interior compartment already crowded with two fold-down map tables, a radio set, and three haggard-looking men — von Olden, his battalion operations chief, and a sergeant who manned their communications gear. Willi, Neumann, and Meyer ducked inside.
The ramp closed right behind them, cutting off some of the noise outside. He squeezed over to where the 192nd’s CO sat. “I need a situation report, Colonel.”
Von Olden glared up at him. “Can’t you tell?” His hands clenched and unclenched repeatedly. “My men are being murdered by Polish artillery! We can’t go forward and we can’t go back! It’s impossible!”
Willi frowned. From the quiver in his voice, von Olden was riding right on the edge.
The communications sergeant interrupted. “Striker One is on line, Herr Oberstleutnant. His guns are deployed.”
That was good news. The eighteen 155mm self-propelled howitzers of the brigade’s artillery battalion were finally ready to fire.