Reynolds both hated and welcomed the first brightening of the eastern sky. On the one hand, the morning light gave him his first real chance to see the ground he would be defending. On the other, dawn meant that the Germans would be coming soon.
He yawned uncontrollably, hoping that the coming daylight would fool his body into wakefulness. So much for the battalion’s sleep plan, he thought. He had a sneaking suspicion that it was only the first of many that would go astray.
Nobody had slept last night, or wanted to — not knowing they were almost sure to be attacked the next morning. While he frantically set up artillery target points and designated fields of fire, his men dug in and camouflaged their new positions — doing everything they could to turn the ground they occupied into a small fortress.
Irizarri’s help had been invaluable. He had thrown himself into organizing Hell Team’s defense, almost adopting Reynolds and his company as his own. Reynolds remembered the colonel’s training background at Fort Irwin, and was grateful for his assistance on this “final exam.”
All of the setup had to be done in near-absolute dark, and with absolute security. If Alpha Company’s battle positions were discovered too soon, its mission would fail before it even began. Battalion’s scouts had been right about the woods being clear of Germans. He could only hope they had kept the enemy scouts at bay as well.
Hell Team held a thin line of woods on the edge of a dilapidated farm. The trees were old, well-established growth, originally planted next to a low stone wall that had fallen into disrepair. Brush had grown up along the treeline, and the three-hundred-meter-long grove had widened over the years until there was plenty of cover for a reinforced company. The woodland’s only flaw was the difficulty of digging in its root-tangled earth.
The trees also created a mix of problems and opportunities for the team’s antitank missile operators. To hide both themselves and the backblast when they fired their TOWs and Javelins, they wanted to be as far back inside the treeline as possible. Too far back, though, and they would risk tangling the TOW’s missile guidance wires on branches when they fired. It had taken them much of the night just to position all their weapons to Reynolds’ satisfaction.
A two-lane asphalt road ran through their front, angling in from the right and cutting through their line. About fifty meters back, it curved east and eventually joined with the motorway. To their front, rolling fields extended another two thousand meters up to a low wooded crest, the graveyard of the 314th and now held by the Germans.
Reynolds had spent part of the night studying the crest, looking for clues to the enemy’s deployment or strength, but even in the thermal sight, there was nothing for him to see. The Germans were staying well out of sight.
They were there, though.
Two early morning Polish air raids on the 314th Regiment’s old positions had drawn ground fire — a lot of ground fire. About midnight, and again at three, jets shrieked past overhead, darting south toward the German-held hill. Seconds later, bright explosions had billowed out from the trees. More significantly, sparkling tracers had climbed into the night from dozens of separate points — most spraying the sky at random, but a few converging on the fast-moving attack planes as they circled away.
Reynolds couldn’t tell if the Polish pilots had hit anything during their brief forays over the battlefield. The few hot spots he’d found using the thermal sights never moved. In the gray, predawn light they were also marked by columns of thin black smoke. Were there German tanks at the base of those flames, or just burning leaves?
He lowered the sight and turned his head toward Sergeant Andy Ford. “All right, Sergeant. Have the men stand to.” They were as ready as they’d ever be.
Most of Hell Team were already at their posts, with their weapons ready, so there was no noise, no bustle — just an increase in alertness, and tension.
Irizarri had left an hour ago with two more Polish stragglers who had wandered in. Both the Poles had insisted on staying and helping Hell Team until the last possible minute, and one, wounded in the leg, had to be near-dragged to Irizarri’s waiting Humvee. The man had wanted a weapon.
Reynolds’ fingers drummed steadily against the butt of the M16 assault rifle lying next to him. Despite all their hard work through the night, Hell Team’s present location was a poor match for their previous position. The company CP was nothing more than a few shallow holes dug in the middle of a tiny cluster of trees, with the spoil piled in front to provide more cover. It was euphemistically called a “hasty position,” as opposed to the “prepared positions” they had reluctantly abandoned yesterday evening. Knowing all of that, Alpha Company’s commander felt insecure, exposed. Why don’t those bastards come ahead and get it over with? he wondered.
He forced himself to wait, to sit quietly. Every minute EurCon delayed was a win for his side. If he had his druthers, he’d sit here until Christmas, while the German tanks rusted. But that wouldn’t happen.
The field phone buzzed. Corporal Adams answered it. “It’s the OP, sir.”
Reynolds took the handset offered him by the tall, gangling soldier. He had placed two of his men, Corporal Ted Brown and Private Gene Webster, on a small rise a kilometer in front of Hell Team’s position, halfway to the enemy. Thoroughly dug in and camouflaged, they were there to give him a few minutes’ extra warning.
“We can see ‘em, sir. Dozens of tanks!” Brown’s voice mixed eagerness and excitement with fear. He’d finally seen the enemy, in the flesh, arrayed for battle. “They’re still back in the trees, but they’re moving up.”
“How many? What are they doing?” Reynolds spoke sharply, feeling his own pulse rate climbing. This was it. “Come on, Ted. Use SALUTE.” The acronym was a memory aid, designed to help observers report what they saw clearly — even in the noise and confusion of battle. Including size, activity, location, unit, time, and equipment in any contact report usually covered all the essentials.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry, sir.” There was a small pause. “Size — six armored vehicles. They’re wheeled. I think they’re Luchs armored cars.”
Reynolds scribbled the information down. “Roger.” He didn’t ask what happened to the “dozens” Brown had seen moments ago.
“Activity, moving up to the edge of the woodline.”
Once he remembered the much-practiced drill, Brown quickly passed the rest of the information. It sounded like the reconnaissance element of a German armored division, getting ready to move forward. Reynolds nodded to himself. That made sense. The Germans would certainly throw a line of scout vehicles out ahead of their advancing tanks. Alternatively they could be using the recon unit’s movements as a feint while the panzer division launched its real attack in some other sector. Which was this?
Reynolds scanned the area with his own binoculars. Nothing. The enemy scout cars Brown and Webster had spotted were still too far away. He asked the observer, “Can you see any other movement? Tanks or APCs?”
“No, sir. Just the recce vehicles. It looks like they’re getting ready to move out.” The concern in Brown’s voice hinted at his real message: “Can we leave now?”
At normal rates of advance, the enemy would take three to four minutes to reach the OP. And it would take two men, sprinting with their gear, longer than that to reach the safety of Hell Team’s position. In other words, they had to bug out the second that the Germans started to move.
Reynolds had no intention of sacrificing his two men unnecessarily, but he wasn’t going to let them leave a second early, either. His only reply was “Stay low and keep your eyes peeled.”