“Your government’s solemn pledges to the Confederation outweigh trivial domestic considerations, madam. If you have any doubts of that, I suggest you reread the relevant treaties.” Desaix didn’t see any point in mincing his words. These people represented a small and vulnerable nation flanked by both France and Germany. They should remember that. Besides, by showing a firm hand now, he could stop their reluctance from sliding into outright resistance.
He leaned forward. “The orders from the Defense Secretariat are final and we expect full and prompt compliance. I suggest you both begin issuing the necessary instructions to your commanders.”
With that, he looked away, ignoring the stunned, strained look of disbelief on their faces. By the time his aides ushered the two appalled Belgian officials out of his office, Nicolas Desaix’s mind was already busy grappling with other, far more important matters.
CHAPTER 28
Bridgehead
Signs of war littered Poland’s roads and fields. Two burned-out T-72s stood off to one side of Highway 5. They had been destroyed while trying to delay the advancing EurCon army. Blackened grass and melted steel and rubber surrounded the wrecks, and the faint, sickening stench of smoke, burned diesel, and burned flesh lingered in the air — a disturbing contrast to the ordinary Polish countryside smells of sunbaked earth, horses, and cattle.
Lieutenant Colonel Willi von Seelow waited by the other side of the road, watching the long column of his brigade’s Marder APCs and Leopard 2 tanks grind past on their way north. Thousands of fighting vehicles and guns were on the move, their passage marked by drifting clouds of dust. After five days spent in reserve, resting and absorbing replacements, the EurCon II Corps was going into battle again — led as usual by the 7th Panzer Division.
Clumps of silent, morose-looking infantrymen rode atop the Marders. Most had scarves pulled up over their mouths and noses to ward off the thick, gritty dust churned up by speeding tracks. Oil and diesel fumes and the scorching heat trapped by their armor made staying inside the APCs’ crowded troop compartments unbearable.
Some of the soldiers crowded atop the APCs were familiar faces. Far too many were men he didn’t know. Although some of the brigade’s losses had been made good by lightly wounded troops returning to duty, most of their replacements were Territorial Army soldiers hastily drafted into regular service.
The rough equivalent of the U.S. National Guard, Germany’s territorial forces were supposed to be used for home defense, not aggressive war, but unexpectedly heavy casualties had forced a change in official policy. Nobody was happy about that. Not the commanders who were being asked to make do with troops who were older, less physically fit, and less prepared for combat. Certainly not the Territorials themselves. Most were businessmen, shopkeepers, and factory workers who had only signed up to defend their own homes against a Soviet invasion. Angry at being ordered into battle on foreign soil, many had refused to report for duty. Others had come prepared with convenient medical reports that excused them from active service. All told, barely half of those called up had joined the German divisions fighting inside Poland.
Willi watched the glum, depressed faces sliding by and sighed. Though on paper his brigade was back to almost full strength, it was still a far cry from the polished, powerful combat formation that had crossed the Neisse twenty-two days before.
A Marder turned out of the column and pulled up beside von Seelow’s own command vehicle. Numbers and letters chalked on the APC’s armored flanks identified it as belonging to Lieutenant Colonel Klaus von Olden, the 192nd Panzergrenadier Battalion’s commanding officer. He noted with some amusement that the brightly painted heraldic crest that had once served the same function was gone. Apparently common sense and a fine nose for battlefield survival had overridden the man’s pride in his noble Prussian ancestors. Von Olden, a middling-tall, grim-faced officer, climbed out of the APC and dropped lightly onto the grass.
Willi strode forward to meet him, trying hard to keep a neutral expression on his face. Arrogant, obnoxious, and ambitious, the 192nd’s CO had been a thorn in his side ever since he’d joined the brigade. Von Olden despised “ossies,” East Germans, like von Seelow — especially ossies who were ahead of him on the promotion ladder. But, like it or not, Willi knew, he had to work with this man.
If anything, his jump to brigade commander had intensified their mutual dislike. Von Olden made no secret of the fact that he considered himself far more competent and deserving than “a jumped-up East German refugee.” Willi suspected that several members of the 7th Panzer and II Corps staffs harbored the same sentiments.
Willi shrugged inwardly. He’d assumed command under the most difficult circumstances imaginable and performed well. At least this war had forced the army’s internal politics to one side in favor of basic competence.
Von Olden stood in front of him with his hands on his hips and his chin jutting out. “You wanted to see me?”
Everything about the battalion commander, from his sarcastic tone and sour expression to the rakish tilt of his dark green beret, seemed designed to show contempt.
Von Seelow waited coldly, saying nothing. Insolence and insubordination were both grounds for disciplinary charges — even against senior officers. If the 192nd’s troublesome CO wanted to push matters that far, he would be happy to oblige him.
Gradually the man’s self-assurance wilted in the face of his continued silence. Still scowling, von Olden straightened to a semblance of attention and asked again, “You wanted to see me, sir?” The last word slipped out through clenched teeth.
Von Seelow nodded calmly. “We’ve been given a new objective, and I’m assigning it to you and your troops.”
He turned on his heel and strode briskly toward the M577 command vehicle where Major Thiessen was waiting to brief them. Von Olden didn’t have any choice but to tag along behind.
Surprised by the Polish counterattack that had checked II Corps south of Poznan, the EurCon high command had been forced to send its jealously guarded reserves into action. For two days, the V Corps’ two fresh panzer divisions had ground forward against the battered Poles — locked in a bloody slugging match to clear the city’s eastern and western approaches. At last, faced with flanking maneuvers that threatened to isolate Poznan entirely, the Poles evacuated and resumed their delaying fight — trading space for time while waiting for reinforcements from the east and from the Combined Forces.
Two of the six Polish divisions on line withdrew toward Warsaw, screening the roads to the Polish capital in case the French and Germans turned that way. The rest were falling back on Gdansk. Every kilometer they retreated brought them closer to better defensive terrain and to the port facilities where the American and British troops already at sea would have to land.
EurCon’s invasion armies had turned north in pursuit. Now they had a new strategic objective, their third in a little over three weeks: Seize Gdansk and shut off the flow of enemy reinforcements and war supplies. Then, with the Poles isolated and reeling, Paris and Berlin could make new peace overtures from a strong battlefield position.
Von Seelow studied the map thoughtfully. Gdansk should have been their objective right from the start. The first Franco-German attacks toward Wroclaw and Poznan had gained ground and nothing else. Taking the Polish port city offered real hope that this idiotic war could be won — or at least brought to a close on honorable terms.