He grabbed the French military police captain who had been directing traffic and stabbed a finger toward the bridging site. “I’m not asking you, Captain, I’m telling you! I want at least one of those pontoon bridges clear for my brigade to cross! Not later! Now!”
The MP licked dry lips and shrugged nervously. “I’m afraid that is impossible, sir. General Belliard himself gave me my orders. All bridges are reserved for the 5th Armored.”
Von Seelow nodded. Belliard was the commander of the 5th French Armored Division.
He glanced up the road behind them. Leopard 2s and Marders were backing up, stalled in close formation while they waited to cross the Warta. They were sitting ducks while stuck like that. His men called the Leopard Der Schimpanse because it was so easy to drive that even a monkey could do it. But not even the Chimp could swim. Only God himself could help them if a Polish fighter-bomber broke through the air patrols overhead and the SAM defenses here below. Or if the Poles got forward observers in a position to call in artillery fire on the riverbank. “And where is General Belliard?”
Again the same nervous shrug. “I am not sure, sir. His command vehicle went by several hours ago.”
Shit. Willi’s anger flared to white-hot rage. The cowardly son-of-a-bitch was probably already back hiding behind General Etienne Montagne’s dress uniform trousers. Part of him wanted to sit back and simply accept the fact that getting across the Warta into combat again was impossible. But another part of him — older, more inflexible, and still bound by honor — summoned up reminders of the oaths he had sworn and of his duty as a soldier.
He spun the French MP around and pointed to the big 120mm main guns mounted on his Leopard 2s. “Do you see those guns, Captain?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Von Seelow leaned forward to stare directly into the other man’s frightened eyes. “Listen to me very carefully. Either you clear a path for my men and me immediately, or my tanks will blow every single one of those damned bridges into the Warta — with or without your men on them. Do I make myself clear?”
The Frenchman’s mouth dropped open and hung there while he stared back at von Seelow. Then he closed it hastily and nodded rapidly.
Von Seelow released him and walked away without looking back — striding back to his command vehicle. With Willi in the lead and in command, the 19th Panzergrenadier was heading back into battle.
CHAPTER 24
Assembly
Down on the Savannah waterfront, the bells pealing to signal Sunday services were drowned out — buried beneath the constant roar of diesel engines and heavy machinery. Ignoring the noise and frantic human activity, clouds of midges and biting flies drifted lazily through hot, humid air, sliding low above oil-stained water and between rusting steel hulls.
Ships crowded the harbor, taking on military cargo destined for the war in Europe. Several were RO/ROs, roll-on/roll-off vessels with stem and side ramps specially designed to speed the process of loading and unloading large numbers of vehicles. Most were breakbulk, general-purpose freighters. Cargo-handling cranes towered over the dock area, dwarfing the crates, containers, and stores pallets they were busy lifting from the piers and lowering into freighter holds.
Mike Decker put his lunch box on a crate and eased his large frame down onto the wooden surface. The seats in the pierside cranes were all right, but after eight hours in one of those steel cages even this wooden crate felt comfortable.
He mopped his rugged face and balding head with a kerchief. It had been a muggy night, and a busy one. He was still strong, still one of the bulls on these docks, but a guy his age, counting the months to retirement, had a right to feel a little stiff. He could do his job, the same one younger men did, but it took more out of him now.
He’d spent the entire night shift — on double time, he reminded himself — loading crates and vehicles and guns and everything else the U.S. Army needed. Now, in the morning light, it looked like he hadn’t done a damn thing.
The port was jammed. Row after row of green and brown camouflaged tanks, trucks, self-propelled guns, and other vehicles filled parking areas near the docks. He knew others were still tied down on flatcars in the rail yards adjacent to the harbor. Crates and cases on pallets occupied every flat spot until there was hardly room to walk.
Two U.S. Army divisions were being readied for sea transport to Poland from Savannah — the 24th Mechanized and the 1st Armored. Other units were loading their gear aboard trains for transportation to different ports along the eastern seaboard.
In addition to the civilian longshoremen, Merchant Marine sailors and Navy Sealift crews were sweating around the clock to load and stow the heavy equipment as it came rolling in by train.
Decker had been working the docks for thirty years. He’d gone out himself, on a ship like these, to Korea. After that, he’d spent his life loading ships, sometimes for war.
The papers were full of stories about the war in Europe, and his father, nearly an invalid but still clear-eyed, was full of stories about the last time Americans had fought in Europe. Like his son now, he had loaded the ships, then watched them sail off over the horizon, wishing them luck and a speedy return.
Decker wished these ships luck as well.
The spacious compartment of the C-141 cargo plane was still dark, even with all its interior lighting on. Captain Mike Reynolds could barely see the loadmaster standing at the forward end of the compartment.
The barrel-chested staff sergeant needed an amplifier to make himself heard over the steady roar of the transport’s jet engines. Holding onto a bracket to steady himself, he shouted instructions into a microphone. “Listen up, gentlemen. This will be a ‘hot landing.’ Not having any great ambition to get blown up by some Frog or Kraut jet jock, we want to be on the ground for the shortest time possible. So make sure you have all your gear ready to go and go fast. There ain’t no lost luggage counter at this here airport.”
That earned him a low chuckle from the listening troopers.
“We’ll turn off the seat belt sign early, as soon as the plane’s landed and slowed a little. Stand up and head for your assigned door, then get out as soon as the doors open. Last time, we emptied this puppy in ten minutes, and we had more cargo then.”
Reynolds looked at his men. Most were nodding, accepting the challenge. Good soldiers were by nature competitive, and this was not an idle contest. While Combined Forces aircraft controlled the sky over Gdansk, a surprise EurCon raid on the airfield would pay big dividends. The enemy might risk planes for the attack, or send in a salvo of cruise missiles. They could hardly miss. The field was crammed with planes and equipment. Besides, other aircraft were stacked three deep behind them, waiting for their turn on a runway. Gdansk was one knotted end of the lifeline keeping the Eastern European democracies afloat.
Unable to stay seated, he unbuckled and moved down the rows of seated soldiers, ostensibly checking over his men and their gear. He hated the confined seating of the Starlifter, folded almost double, and jammed tight against the next man. The bulky, standard-issue rucksack and equipment harness was filled with bumps and hard corners, so that no matter how you sat, some part of your anatomy was being poked by something.