Unfortunately, capturing Gdansk before the Americans could land their heavy armor and mechanized units would take some doing. During the three days of nonstop pursuit since Poznan fell, EurCon’s forces had advanced more than eighty kilometers. Now they were closing in on the sprawling industrial city of Bydgoszcz. But the port was still another 150 kilometers beyond that, and Bydgoszcz itself could prove a tough nut to crack.
Anyone trying to advance through or around the city first had to cross the Notec River and then penetrate a fairly thick band of forest. Swinging wide to the west would be difficult at best, impossible at worst. The Pomeranian Lakelands began there — a vast marshland of more than a thousand lakes and tree-lined, winding waterways. Moving east was also impractical. The broad Vistula River looped north there, blocking easy flanking moves.
Willi frowned. Terrain and the road net were both combining to funnel EurCon’s advancing army into a frontal attack against Bydgoszcz. If their enemies were looking for a good place to turn and fight, this was it.
The Notec River, though not as wide as the Vistula, was still a formidable tactical barrier. Given enough time, the Poles could dig in solidly behind the river line — barring the main road to Gdansk.
II Corps headquarters wanted the 19th Panzergrenadier Brigade to seize a bridgehead across the Notec, and soon. But where?
Major Thiessen answered his question by leaning across the map and pointing to a village several kilometers up the road from their present position. “There, Herr Oberstleutnant. The highway bridge at Rynarzewo.”
Willi nodded, feeling cold inside. II Corps wanted them to attack straight up the middle. If the Poles were still retreating, they’d only blow the bridge right in his face. If they were deploying to hold the river line in strength, the 192nd’s assault could easily run headfirst into a ready-made killing ground.
From the troubled look on Klaus von Olden’s face he had come to the same conclusion. The corners of his thin-lipped mouth turned down. “What kind of support can I count on, Major?”
Thiessen looked apologetic. “Very little, I’m afraid, Herr Oberstleutnant.”
Von Olden stabbed a finger down on the woods shown just north of the bridge. It offered perfect concealment for any Polish tanks and infantry lurking in ambush. “What about an air strike here? Using napalm or cluster munitions, if possible.”
The major shook his head. “No air support is available, sir.”
Not particularly surprising, Willi thought numbly. The focus of the air war had shifted west, into France and Germany. The small numbers of exhausted fighter and fighter-bomber squadrons left to both sides were being used solely for air defense or for raids on vital installations. Neither side could claim any measure of air superiority over the battlefield.
Von Olden rocked back on his heels. “And my artillery support? What guns will I have on call?”
“Our brigade guns and mortars only, Herr Oberstleutnant. Apparently all corps and divisional artillery is being committed to other operations,” Thiessen replied.
Willi’s suspicions hardened into near certainty. General Montagne, the II Corps commander, had something else up his sleeve. Nobody could seriously expect a single brigade to capture the bridge at Rynarzewo without more support. Clearly he and his men were being asked to fight and die as part of a feint. While the Poles concentrated their forces to butcher the 19th Panzergrenadier, Montagne must be hoping that other units would be able to cross the river elsewhere against lighter opposition.
Anger gripped him. It was bad enough to be sacrificed so callously. The French general’s apparent willingness to keep them in the dark was worse. Did Montagne think his German troops wouldn’t fight hard enough if they knew the truth?
For an instant von Seelow considered refusing the attack order. Then reality flooded back in. In the abstract, his defiance would be a fine thing. In practical terms, it would achieve nothing. Montagne and General Leibnitz would only replace him with von Olden or someone similar.
He peered down at the map, aware that both Thiessen and von Olden were watching him carefully, waiting for their instructions. For a moment, his mind stayed obstinately blank. Then, suddenly, the beginnings of an idea tugged at his consciousness. If you couldn’t bypass a strong enemy position or spend the time needed to pulverize it with superior firepower, there was just one real option left. Speed was life, the fighter pilots said. Well, the same often applied to land warfare. Rapid maneuver was the key to seizing the initiative and disrupting enemy plans. It also lay at the heart of German tactical doctrine.
Willi looked up at the 192nd’s commander. “When can you attack, Colonel?”
“An hour? Perhaps two?” Von Olden shrugged. “Once we’ve closed up on the river, I’ll need time to deploy my companies, scout the ground, and brief my officers. I’ll want tank support from the 194th, too.”
“No.” Von Seelow shook his head. He nodded toward the northern horizon. “The more time we use up now, the more time we give those Poles to finish digging in.”
He turned back to von Olden. “So don’t mess about, Colonel! Hit them as hard and as fast as you can before they’ve got time to get set! Swing right out of your march column into the attack! I’ll feed the other battalions into the fight as fast as they arrive. Clear?”
The 192nd’s aristocratic commander nodded reluctantly, clearly unenthusiastic about the whole idea. For all his aggressive posturing, Klaus von Olden was a cautious man at heart.
Willi ignored his subordinate’s uncertainty. He glanced at Thiessen. “Get on the radio to Captain Brandt. Tell him I want the approaches to that damned village cleared as quickly as he can!”
The major nodded and hurried away. Gunther Brandt commanded the brigade’s advance guard — a battle group made up of the captain’s Luchs scout cars and a Leopard company attached from the 194th Panzer for added striking power. Brandt and his men had been skirmishing with retreating Polish armor and infantry units all morning, engaging at long range and maneuvering off the highway to outflank the Poles whenever they turned to fight. It was the kind of fighting designed to minimize casualties while still gaining ground, but it was time-consuming. Von Seelow’s new orders would change that.
Whatever Montagne and his French staff officers expected, the 19th Panzergrenadier Brigade would do its damnedest to seize the Rynarzewo bridge intact.
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.