“A duty the damned French would undoubtedly perform to perfection,” Yorck growled.
Willi nodded. His friend had every reason to be bitter. This relief was long overdue. Some officers openly wondered whether Montagne had secret orders from Paris to hold down French casualties in what was rapidly becoming a prolonged and unpopular war.
Now, with French armor finally out in front, II Corps, 7th Panzer’s parent formation, was turning northeast against stiff opposition. They were driving hard to cross the Warta River below Poznan at a little town called Srem. Once across the river, the corps would swing northward again, advancing down the Warta’s east bank toward the city. Montagne, Leibnitz, and the other generals hoped the move would outflank the Polish Army’s best defensive positions.
They were supposed to link up with the III Corps’ three divisions on the far side of Poznan.
And then what were they supposed to do? As far as von Seelow was concerned, the belief that capturing or isolating Poznan would somehow force the Poles to the bargaining table was a fantasy of the worst kind. The Americans were busy flattening Germany’s naval and air installations along the Baltic. Once they were done, the Baltic would lie open to U.S. and British freighters and troop transports. Why should Poland surrender now when time was on its side?
Von Seelow spun abruptly on his heel and strode toward the building he’d commandeered for the staff operations center. He couldn’t shake the growing feeling that he and his fellow soldiers were mired to the knees in a deadly bog and sinking fast.
Artillery grumbled to the north, like distant thunder on a gray, overcast day. The dirty, ragtag band of forty Polish soldiers concealed in the band of birchwoods stiffened and then relaxed. The shelling was too far away to menace them. They settled back to their work, stripping and cleaning an oddly varied assortment of personal weapons — some Polish, some German, and some French. A few were busy performing routine maintenance on a small collection of equally varied vehicles. Two civilian cars, a Polish GAZ jeep, an American-made Humvee, and a canvas-sided German truck were parked beneath the trees.
Major Marek Malanowski squatted easily on his haunches in a small clearing near the center of the woods, listening respectfully to the elderly, weather-beaten farmer who had come in that morning bearing glad tidings. He waited until the man finished speaking and then asked, “Why are you so sure that this camp is a headquarters of some kind? Couldn’t it be a field hospital or a supply dump?”
The farmer snorted. “I served my time as a conscript, Major. Where else but a headquarters do you see enough saluting to wear arms out — not to mention enough radio antennas for a whole village? And when did you ever see doctors saluting each other?”
Malanowski grinned. “True enough.” He rocked back on his heels and stared down at his locked hands, considering the presence of an enemy command post within striking distance. Then he looked up. “What about their security?”
The old man hawked and spat to one side. “Pathetic. A few foot soldiers, a machine-gun nest or two, and a few trucks.”
“Any signs that they’re planning to move?”
“No.” The farmer shook his grizzled head confidently. “If they move out today, they’ll be leaving a lot of vehicles behind. I saw mechanics overhauling engines all over the place.”
Malanowski stood up, straightening to his full height. His calf muscles ached, sore from constant overuse and too little rest. He ignored the pain. “All right, my friend, I’ll come see this headquarters of yours for myself.”
He glanced around the clearing at his men and smiled coldly. “Then we may all pay these Germans a social call later on tonight. Right, boys?”
Grim, silent nods answered him.
Malanowski was satisfied by that. His soldiers were hungry for revenge. Some were survivors from his battalion. Others were stragglers he’d picked up on the long, dangerous journey eastward from the Neisse River. They’d kept busy on the way — dodging EurCon patrols and ambushing couriers and supply trucks. But now the major was ready to hunt bigger game.
The 19th Panzergrenadier’s main command post occupied an orchard just off the road connecting Leszno and the Warta River crossings at Srem. Five hundred meters of open fields separated the orchard from Nochowo, the closest hamlet.
Von Seelow came out of his M577 TOC and waited, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. The sun had set two hours before and the moon wouldn’t be up for a little while longer. In the meantime, the headquarters unit had to make do with a few shielded electric lamps.
Repeated flashes rippled along the northeastern horizon, backed up by a rhythmic, muted thumping. He frowned. Although II Corps HQ had passed very little information down the chain, it was clear that the Poles were hitting the French in strength. But what magic hat had they tapped to find the troops for a counterattack? Where had they made themselves weak to be strong here?
Von Seelow looked away and walked toward the cluster of officers huddled around a dimly lit map table. Aware that they might be called out of reserve soon to retrieve a deteriorating tactical situation across the Warta, Colonel Bremer had summoned his battalion and company commanders to the brigade CP for a quick brief.
The map taped to the table showed the broad extent of the Confederation’s advance into Poland. Our vaunted invasion looks just like a ridiculously big fishhook, he realized, with the bend beginning at Wroclaw. Well, von Seelow thought wryly, maybe we’re confusing the Poles almost as much as we’re confusing ourselves.
A stocky shape tugged at his sleeve. “Herr Oberstleutnant!”
He recognized Private Neumann’s hoarse voice. The signalman must have followed him out of the TOC. “What is it?”
“Division is on the line again, sir. They say it’s urgent.”
Von Seelow stifled the urge to swear. He’d spoken with the 7th Panzer’s operations officer only a few minutes before. What could possibly have changed in such a short span of time? He caught Bremer’s eye and inclined his head toward the TOC, indicating he’d been called back.
The colonel nodded briefly and kept talking, filling his officers in on what he knew about the battle raging ahead of them.
Von Seelow headed back to his bulky, blacked-out armored vehicle. On the way he noticed again how few troops were guarding the command post. He made a mental note to raise his concerns with Lieutenant Preussner, the junior officer currently responsible for headquarters security. The men usually charged with the task, soldiers from 7th Panzer’s jaeger and security battalions, were spread across southwest Poland, guarding bridges and supply convoys. To replace them, Bremer had detailed Preussner to command a scratch force of men volunteered by each of the brigade’s battalions.
Willi was beginning to believe that the colonel had made a mistake there. Naturally enough, most of the battalion COs had taken the opportunity to rid themselves of a few feckless incompetents and disciplinary hard cases. Given enough time, a tough, experienced leader might have been able to whip them into shape, but not Preussner. The thin, bookish lieutenant ordinarily ran the 19th’s cryptographic cell. He was a good staff officer. He was also the last person von Seelow would have put in charge of line troops — at least under ideal circumstances. Of course, the circumstances were anything but ideal. Preussner had been chosen because two weeks of war had left the brigade with a distinct shortage of junior officers. Matching assignments and personalities was a peacetime luxury.
Von Seelow strode up his M577’s rear ramp and ducked his head as he brushed through the blackout curtain into its crowded compartment. One of his subordinates handed him a headset. Preussner’s troubles would have to wait. II Corps was undoubtedly about to dump a whole new load on the 19th Panzergrenadier’s shoulders.