Von Seelow planned to show them they were wrong. Once across the Neisse, the 19th Panzergrenadier would sweep southeast along the railroad embankment and the woods themselves. The forest wasn’t old-growth. It lacked the dense, tangled undergrowth that would have rendered it impassable to vehicles. Movement would be made even easier by using some of the dirt logging tracks that crisscrossed the area. Most of them fed onto the highway near Olszyna. The brigade’s Leopards and Marders should hit the reinforced Polish battalion guarding the bridge from the flank and rear before its commander knew they were coming.
The 7th Panzer Division’s reconnaissance battalion prowled onward through the woods, advancing in a kilometer-wide wedge. Sunlight streamed down through the trees, splintered by gently swaying green leaves and branches into patches of light and shadow rippling over camouflaged hulls and gun turrets. Eight-wheeled Luchs scout cars roved ahead, probing for the first signs of stiffening Polish resistance. Tanks and six-wheeled Fuchs troop carriers followed a few hundred meters behind.
Major Max Lauer rode proudly erect in the unbuttoned turret hatch of his Leopard 1 headquarters tank. Although they mounted smaller-caliber main guns and had less armor protection than the newer Leopard 2s, the thirty-six tanks under his command still gave his recon battalion a powerful punch. He and his men could fight most enemy forces they encountered on equal terms and outmaneuver most of those who outnumbered them.
Thunder rumbled to the southwest — the sound of heavy shelling muffled by distance and by the trees. Lauer brushed his radio headphones back for a moment to listen and then nodded grimly. The Poles holding the highway bridge were catching hell from at least twelve artillery batteries. He didn’t envy them the experience.
He slipped his headphones back on. The battle for the bridge wasn’t his concern. Not directly anyway. The 19th Panzergrenadier would deal with the enemy troops there. His battalion had its own mission. They were supposed to seize and hold the road junction at Jaglowice, six kilometers further down the highway.
From there, Lauer’s tanks and infantry could block or delay any reaction force speeding toward the battle. They would also tighten the noose around any Polish units that survived the attack at Olszyna and tried to flee east down the road.
Major Marek Malanowski was knocked off his feet as another near miss rocked his command bunker. Dust and smoke from the explosion boiled in through observation and firing slits beneath the bunker’s timber and sandbag roof. One of his sergeants helped him up.
The major bent down and scooped his helmet off the earth floor. Then he clapped it back on over his close-cropped black hair. “I don’t think they like us very much, Jan.”
The sergeant grinned, a quick flash of tobacco-stained teeth across a dirt-smeared face. “No, sir.”
Malanowski took another look outside. It was like staring into a whirling, roaring maelstrom — only one made up of smoke and fire instead of water and foam. More shells churned the riverbank and nearby woods. Airbursts shredded treetops, sending wood and steel splinters whining earthward. Shock waves from the explosions tore the leaves from those trees left standing and sent them swirling wildly through the air. Plumes of oily black smoke curled into the air from several vehicles smashed and set on fire by direct hits.
Nevertheless, despite the pounding they were taking, his defenses appeared mostly intact. If their nerves held out under the constant, shattering noise, troops in well-prepared positions could usually ride out even the worst artillery bombardment. So far, at least, the men of the 411th Mechanized Battalion were standing firm. If they could just hold on a little longer, he was confident that they would tear to shreds any EurCon attempt to cross the river.
Malanowski’s battalion was organized along American lines, but it was still using Soviet-style equipment. He had three companies of BMP-1s dug into the woods along the riverbanks, sited to cover the bridge and other potential crossing points with their 73mm smoothbore cannon and wire-guided antitank missiles. Their infantry squads were all dismounted and in firing positions with overhead cover to protect them from shell fragments. He even had a T-72 tank company in support.
With that much firepower on tap, any first German tanks that tried storming across the highway bridge wouldn’t get more than a hundred meters. And if they tried sending infantry across in rubber rafts or assault boats? The Polish major shrugged. Mortars and machine guns should deal pretty handily with those poor bastards. Even a smoke screen couldn’t stop converging automatic weapons fire. Put enough bullets into an area fast enough and you were bound to hit someone.
Of course, it would have been a lot easier if they could have just blown the bridge and been done with it. But rigging enough demolitions to bring down a major structure took time. It was also obvious. Even with a strike and counterstrike air war in progress, Warsaw hadn’t wanted to give EurCon any more excuses to escalate the conflict.
He turned to the lieutenant manning the command bunker’s communications gear. “Any word from the Zasieki OP yet?” He had to shout to be heard over the constant, deafening barrage.
“No, sir.”
“What about Lieutenant Lesniak?”
“Nothing, Major.”
Malanowski chewed his lower lip. That worried him. They’d lost contact with the tiny observation post more than an hour ago — shortly after the enemy artillery barrage began. Maybe the shelling had cut the telephone wires his signals troops had laid. And maybe not.
Concerned by the ominous silence on his flank, he’d sent Lesniak and a small patrol north along the river. They were under orders to make contact with the OP and report back. Now they were missing, too. Were they pinned down by the artillery? Silenced by German radio jamming? Or had the lieutenant and his men run into more trouble than they could handle?
After Malanowski’s first reports of increased enemy activity across the river, his regimental commander had promised him the first available reinforcements. But the major knew they would be a long time coming. With so much ground to cover, the 4th Mechanized Division had very few reserves held back.
Essentially the 411th was on its own.
Faced with that reality, he’d deployed his own tactical reserve, D Company, at right angles to the river, covering his northern flank. It wasn’t much, just fourteen BMPs and a hundred infantrymen, but it was all he had.
The shelling changed tempo suddenly, slowing and growing softer.
Malanowski scanned the ground sloping down toward the Neisse again. He could see shells bursting along the shoreline, exploding in puffs of grayish-white smoke. The Germans were building a smoke screen to cover their assault! He showed his teeth in a quick tigerish grin. His battalion had suffered under the enemy’s artillery fire for long enough. Now they would have a chance to pay the Germans back in full.
“Thermal sight!”
His senior sergeant handed him a thermal imaging sight they’d stripped from one of their American-supplied Dragon antitank missile launchers. He cradled the bulky sight in both hands and hoisted it up to the bunker’s observation slit.
The sight “saw” temperature variations among different objects — leaves, the water, men, and vehicles — and turned them into a clear, monochrome view of the world outside. Hotter objects showed up in shades of white and cooler ones in shades of black.