Standard operating procedure saved him. His troops knew what they had to do as soon as they arrived. While that still left a lot of work and planning for the officers and noncoms, the routine items were already part of the plan.
Reynolds quickly walked the ground with his platoon commanders. He forced himself to take the time to do it right, to do it by the book, because the book wouldn’t let him forget anything important. To hold his section of the line, he had three platoons of infantry of about thirty men each, armed with automatic rifles and machine guns. The company’s heavier firepower came from two 60mm mortars, useful for laying smoke or harassing unprotected troops but not much else, and six Javelin antitank missile launchers.
He took strength from the familiar routine, even in an unfamiliar landscape. But behind the quiet, calm front, dozens of troubling questions filled his mind. Would his men hold up under enemy fire? Would he? Had he forgotten anything — anything that might get his soldiers killed unnecessarily? At last, he shrugged inwardly. There was no way he could answer questions like that. Not until tomorrow.
The sun lay low on the western horizon by the time Alpha Company broke for dinner. Reynolds squatted on the grass near the other men in his company headquarters, chewing reflectively on the rubbery Swedish meatballs in his mess tin. His troops had accomplished a lot, he decided. Ammunition was still a problem, but their communications nets, both radio and landline were in place, and battalion had promised him engineer support to help build obstacles and lay minefields…
“Movement to the front!” The sudden shout snapped everyone’s eyes around, and those few men who did not have their weapons immediately to hand cursed their error and raced to get them.
Even as he was moving to cover, Reynolds spotted a Humvee roaring up a dirt road from the southwest. The driver seemed to be doing his best to keep the utility truck airborne as much as possible, and Alpha Company’s commander carefully checked to make sure there wasn’t an enemy in hot pursuit.
As the wheeled vehicle roared closer, Reynolds recognized Colby in the passenger seat, along with Captain Marino, the battalion’s intelligence officer, or S-2. Another lieutenant colonel, a stranger, drove. The Humvee was heading for a stone barn serving as the company CP, and Reynolds hurried back, making it there just as the dust cleared and the riders disembarked.
Colby had on his best outgoing, cheerful manner. “Can you take three more for dinner, Mike?”
“No problem, Colonel,” Reynolds answered, glad that he had successfully arranged a hot meal for this evening. With combat imminent, it might be their last for some time.
The battalion commander introduced the other lieutenant colonel. “Captain, meet Ferd Irizarri, liaison with the Polish 11th Mech. You may remember him. We were at Irwin together.”
Reynolds nodded. He remembered Irizarri very well. Of middling height, the dark-haired liaison officer seemed to pack enough energy into his frame for a much taller man. He wore Polish battle dress, but with American rank insignia, and he carried an American-made Ingram submachine gun. While Colby’s and Marino’s gear looked neat and fresh, Irizarri’s was worn — not slovenly, but he’d definitely been in the field for a long time.
The last time Mike Reynolds had seen Ferdinand Irizarri up close, the man had been serving as the executive officer of the OPFQR battalion at Fort Irwin, the army’s National Training Center. The OPFOR unit specialized in using Soviet gear and Soviet-style tactics against regular battalions like the 3/187th rotating in for advanced tactical training. They were good, very good. Low-powered lasers, blanks, and small explosive charges used as artillery simulators took the place of real bullets and shells, but everything else was kept as close to real combat as possible. Harsh experience in Korea and Vietnam had taught the American military to train hard and train often. Combat leaders and troops were supposed to make their basic mistakes in front of Fort Irwin’s unforgiving evaluators — not in a real war.
He led them toward the chow line. “So now you’re working with the Poles, Colonel?”
Irizarri nodded. “I’ve been here for two months, getting the 11th ready for the transition to U.S. tactics and equipment. The war caught us just a few months short of trading in the Soviet gear. Now I’m the link between their fighting style and ours.”
Colby and Marino had brought Irizarri back to coordinate the withdrawal of the 314th. Its escape route, once the EurCon pressure grew too great, lay right through the middle of Alpha Company’s position. The movement of one unit through another, called a passage of lines, was always dangerous. First, because it could be tough to identify the incoming unit as friend or foe, and second, because there was always a risk that the two formations would get tangled up in each other, so that instead of two combat-ready units, you wound up with one disordered mess.
“We’ve been up ahead getting the exact picture,” Colby announced as they ate. “I wish I could send all the battalion’s officers up there, but there’s no time. I’ll tell you this, though.” He leaned forward a little, emphasizing his point. “You are going to see some beat-down soldiers come through here tomorrow morning. They need us.”
After finishing the quick meal and briefly touring Alpha Company’s defenses, Colby was done. He had two more companies to visit before it got too dark to see. But before climbing back into his Humvee, the 3/187th’s dapper commanding officer clapped Reynolds on the shoulder. “I like what I see, Mike. You’re on track. What’ll we do tomorrow when they come at us?”
Reynolds smiled. “Give ’em hell, sir.”
Willi von Seelow looked up from the map at the circle of tired, confident faces in front of him. “That’s it, then, gentlemen. Are there any questions?”
“No, Herr Oberstleutnant.” His battalion commanders and senior staff officers shook their heads in unison.
“Good.” Von Seelow slowly straightened to his full height, aware that the top of his head almost brushed against the shelter tent his headquarters troops had rigged between the brigade’s command vehicles. “Remember this: when we attack, we attack hard. Push your companies forward on a narrow front, using heavy smoke as a shield. Then find the Poles, fix them with firepower, and grind them under!”
They nodded, stiffened to attention, and then filed out, heading for their own command tanks and Marders.
Willi followed them outside and stood looking out across the darkened landscape in front of him. He was taking a big risk with this attack. Trying to conduct offensive operations at night invariably spawned serious command and control problems. Unable to see clearly, units got lost or blundered into each other. Friendly-fire incidents multiplied. As the surrounding darkness magnified fears and confused the senses, attacks could bog down without even encountering significant enemy resistance. Given all of that, he knew that many of his counterparts would have waited longer, at least until first light.
But von Seelow had his eyes on the clock, not on tactical perfection.
For the EurCon forces inside Poland, time was as much an enemy as the opposing soldiers waiting up the highway. Every day — no, every hour — they were delayed gave the Americans and British more time to land troops, tanks, artillery pieces, and combat helicopters at Gdansk. The first big seaborne convoys could only be days away at most.
Willi gritted his teeth. They should be closer to the port city than they were. Much closer. But routing the Poles out of the factories, chemical storage areas, and housing tracts around Bydgoszcz had taken far longer than it should have — thanks largely to what seemed the typical French reluctance to take casualties. He shook his head angrily. Again and again, Germany’s “allies” had relied on time-consuming artillery barrages and tiny, halfhearted attacks to drive the city’s defenders from their positions. They had gained ground, but slowly, so slowly. Twenty kilometers in two days! At that rate, the whole American army could reach Poland before he and his men caught even a glimpse of Gdansk’s skyline!