A rippling chain of explosions seemed to tear apart the ground itself, but trailed off after a few volleys. Reynolds raised himself to his knees, scanning the area. Now Major Prazmo’s Poles were being hit, he judged. He hoped they were all under armor.
He could hear more artillery, too, distant, but not that distant. What was going on? This didn’t fit in with an attack on Bladzim.
He scrambled back inside the CP. Ford’s face was grim, and said more than the words did. He seemed reluctant to speak.
“Report,” ordered Reynolds.
“Second Platoon’s been hit hard, Captain.” The sergeant’s clipped tone was heavy with loss. “Those were cluster bombs, and a stick landed square on top of ‘em. Three killed, about ten wounded. Lieutenant Riley is dead. Two of the wounded need immediate medevac. And one of the Humvees is a total write-off, along with the antitank missiles it carried.”
Reynolds’s chest suddenly felt tight and ice-cold. That one German air strike had just killed or wounded more of his men than he’d lost in the whole of Alpha Company’s first battle. What could he have done differently? Probably nothing, but he wasn’t sure he believed it. What should he do now? Deaths were a part of combat, but these were his men. He tried to push the questions to the back of his mind. There were still things to do.
When they called to organize the medevac, they got the word: the brigade was being hit, hard. Armored vehicles were pouring out of the woods to their front, while a storm of artillery and air strikes pounded their positions. Radars and radios were jammed. There was no question. The Germans were going to try again, harder and faster than before.
Ford had to spend considerable time calming the corporal on the other end of the phone, who from the sound of things was ready to bolt that moment for Gdansk. The sergeant finally hung up and turned to face Reynolds. “They’re coming at us full tilt, Captain. With everything, including the kitchen sink.”
Prazmo ran in, one sleeve bloody, but apparently none of it his. Reynolds gave him a quick summary of the situation, but Prazmo barely let him finish before he declared, “We have to move, Captain. Your men, mine. All of us. The Germans move fast. Damned fast. Your general may not understand this.”
Reynolds started to protest, but the Pole cut him off, pointing to a spot on the map about two kilometers east of Biala. An irregular clump of woods, several kilometers across, lay over Highway 5 as it headed north.
“We must defend here. When the Germans break through, they will try to take this place. Look,” he urged, moving his finger north along the road. “It is the last big block. Once past this, their tanks will be out in open country.”
Reynolds gauged the terrain carefully, trying to think carefully in spite of the Pole’s urging. As brigade reserve, they were responsible for a sector almost ten kilometers across. It would take time to move there, more time to set up, and if he was wrong, they’d be out of position, helplessly watching the enemy onslaught go by them.
But blocking the highway made the most sense. Other roads led off in the wrong direction or went through tighter, more constricted terrain.
Reynolds agreed, and told Ford to have the company prepare to move. They couldn’t stay here anyway, he thought. The enemy obviously knew where they were and could hit them again. This harassing fire was bad enough.
He’d be damned if he’d move without brigade’s permission, though. Adams reached the brigade TOC, but Colonel Iverson was gone — up at one of the battalion command posts. The S-3 okayed Reynolds’ recommendation, though. “Get in those woods and watch out,” he warned. His voice took on a desperate note. “The Germans aren’t maneuvering at all. They’re coming on at full speed.”
The sound of diesel engines outside drowned out the still-falling shells. Reynolds ran out in time to see T-72 tanks and BMP fighting vehicles lumbering by. As planned, most of Alpha Company clung to the sides of the tanks or rode on top, while the Polish soldiers rode inside. Prazmo’s command tank halted long enough for Reynolds, Sergeant Ford, and Corporal Adams to climb aboard, then shot off to the east.
The ride was not gentle, although Reynolds thanked God the ground was relatively flat. Prazmo’s driver was heading pell-mell for the woodline, now a little over a kilometer away. He looked back to Biala. There was no further sign of falling artillery. Was their departure noted, then? Were they being tracked right now?
A louder-pitched whine over their heads made him look up. A flight of four AH-64 Apache gunships flashed by, low, and at top speed. A few moments later another and then another appeared. Reynolds was both heartened and concerned. That many attack birds would give the Germans something to worry about, but if they were committing the division reserve this early, just what was hitting them?
As his eye tracked the southbound helicopters, following them out of sight, more movement attracted his eye. This time he saw fighter aircraft, distant but still recognizable, and as they banked, turning toward the battlefield, he identified them as F-4 Phantom fighters, American-made, but flown by Germans. Wonderful. The Apaches would not have a free ride this time.
Suddenly he felt very exposed. He wanted to get under the trees or some sort of cover, out from under the open sky. The steel shell of the tank beneath him was hard, as unyielding as a stone. It would make a fine anvil if the Germans provided the right hammer.
Reynolds tried to organize his thoughts. Looking back and to the right, he saw the land between the woodline and Swiecie. On the northern side of town, the buildings thinned out rapidly, replaced by farmland, half-fallow, the rest planted with wheat, now half-grown.
Swiecie itself was almost smothered by masses of black and gray and white smoke. The sounds of battle were fainter and confused, but he could pick out tank guns and the crash of artillery shells. The T-72’s engine slowed as they neared the woodline, and he could hear the pop of small-arms fire as well.
The edge of the woods was sharply defined. It was an old forest, carefully tended, with little undergrowth. The trees were well spaced, mostly evergreens with a few others mixed in. Thick enough to provide cover for the infantry, they were still spaced widely enough to allow armored vehicles to pass.
Highway 5, a four-lane asphalt road, entered the woods from the southwest and came out about five hundred meters to the northeast. Beyond the road and forest, open, boggy ground sloped down to the Vistula River.
Prazmo’s tanks stopped just outside the trees to allow the American infantrymen to jump off.
Reynolds grabbed Ford’s shoulder after they’d both scrambled down off the T-72. “Okay, Andy, first thing is local security. Get a squad from 1st Platoon deployed so we don’t get bushwhacked while we’re setting up. I’ll reconnoiter the area so we can site the Javelins, then…”
Prazmo arrived, and Reynolds noticed that Ford looked uneasy. “Sir, I don’t know if we’ll be able…”
A sound grew from nothing into a howling scream and everyone dove for cover as a jet roared overhead. The delta-winged shape of a Phantom flashed by, the German Maltese crosses seeming out of place on the American-built plane. Although it did not attack, they all knew they’d been spotted.
Reynolds turned back to Ford, still snapping out instructions. He had to concentrate to hear himself speak, because Prazmo was also issuing orders in rapid-fire Polish. A small cluster of senior noncoms and officers nodded at the major’s staccato sentences. They ran off, and the Pole turned back, impatiently waiting for the younger American to finish.
Ford looked stubborn. “Skipper, we may not have time for all this. From what I heard on the horn, the goddamned Krauts are already rolling right through the rest of the brigade.”