Malanowski panned back and forth between the highway bridge and the opposite shore, looking closely for the first signs of enemy movement. Nothing yet. But they wouldn’t wait much longer. He glanced at the lieutenant manning his commo gear. “Order all companies to stand to!”
“Sir.”
The major checked the river again. Still nothing. What the devil were the EurCon commanders playing at? Every minute they delayed gave his soldiers more time to scramble into their fighting positions and to clear away blast-heaped dirt or shattered tree limbs that blocked their fields of fire.
Gunfire exploded on his right flank and quickly spread down the line — first a single shot, then a crackling, ear-splitting roar as assault rifles, machine guns, and tank cannon opened up.
“Major! D Company is under attack!” Obviously stunned by what he was reporting, the young lieutenant stood shaking, with one hand still pressing the field telephone against his ear. “They’re being hit by enemy tanks and infantry! Battalion strength at least!”
Malanowski dashed to a firing slit looking north. The gray haze was thicker there. More shells burst among the shattered trees, blending with the dense, black smoke pouring out of burning APCs. Flames stabbed out of the murk — marking both his firing line and the wave of German tanks and panzer-grenadiers smashing into his battalion’s flank and rear.
Christ. He spun toward the ashen-faced lieutenant, rattling off new orders as fast as they popped into his head. “Tell A Company to reinforce the right flank! And tell Captain Stachniak to swing his T-72s north!”
If D Company could just hold for a few more minutes, they might buy him enough time to reorient his defenses.
It was too late. Malanowski could see men falling back through the smoke, pausing just long enough to fire a burst or two in the direction they’d come before retreating again. One cartwheeled backward, knocked off his feet by return fire. Another lay bloody and broken, sprawled across a fallen tree trunk. Rounds whipcracked overhead. A T-72 clanked forward through the fleeing infantry, still trailing torn camouflage netting from its turret and rear deck. Its turret whined, slewing from side to side as it looked for targets.
Whanngg.
The T-72 disappeared inside a bright orange flash — hit by a German armor-piercing round. Its rounded turret blew off and fell beside the burning tank. Secondary explosions rocked the hull as stored fuel and ammunition cooked off.
The smoke thinned for an instant, giving Malanowski a brief glimpse of men in “Fritz” Kevlar helmets moving closer — advancing in short rushes through the woods. They were tossing grenades and firing bursts into Polish foxholes and bunkers. His flank was collapsing. The Germans were inside the battalion’s defensive perimeter.
He made an instant decision. His soldiers were being overrun too fast to put up any effective resistance. Staying here meant dying here. But maybe he could save something from the wreckage. He pulled his head away from the firing slit. “Order all companies to withdraw! We’ll fall back south to the alternate rally point and regroup!”
While the lieutenant relayed his instructions to anyone still listening on the battalion net, Malanowski handed the precious thermal sight to his sergeant. Then he grabbed his personal weapon, an AKM assault rifle, and a knapsack from one corner of the bunker. He spun round, checking the rest of his staff. They were ready. Papers, codebooks, and maps they didn’t have time to pack up were heaped in a single pile, ready for destruction.
Machine-gun fire rattled somewhere outside. Stray rounds thwacked into the bunker’s timber roof and shredded sandbags on its sides. The Germans were closing in, and it was high time they were gone.
Malanowski and the sergeant led the way, clearing the bunker door in a rush with their assault rifles at the ready. The rest of the staff followed, crouching low as bullets whined past. The last man out turned, pulled the pin from a grenade, and lobbed it back through the door. It went off with a dull whummp, blowing dirt, sand, and fragments of shredded paper through firing slits and the opening.
Still bent low, they sidled away from the bunker. Their headquarters BMP was parked just a few meters away, surrounded on three sides by raised earth embankments and covered by camouflage netting. Its crew already had the engine running and the rear troop doors open.
A German Leopard came thundering out of the smoke only a hundred meters away. Its turret and long-barreled gun pointed off to the left, aiming at a target somewhere closer to the river.
“Down!” Malanowski threw himself prone.
The BMP’s gun barked once, slamming a 73mm HEAT round into the Leopard at point-blank range. The German tank rocked sideways and shuddered to a stop with smoke pouring out through the jagged hole torn in its armor. The corpse of its commander lay draped over his roof-mounted machine gun.
Before the Polish major could start to smile, another Leopard, invisible through the gray haze, avenged its fallen comrade with a single cannon round.
Whammm.
The BMP exploded, spraying sharp-edged metal in all directions. Malanowski could hear its trapped crew screaming in agony as they burned to death. He scrambled to his feet, hearing shouts in German to the north and east. The panzergrenadiers were practically right on top of them.
“On your feet! Move! Move!” He erupted into action, kicking and hauling stunned soldiers to their feet, then pushing them south — away from the burning BMP. With their commander urging them on, the battalion’s headquarters team faded deeper into the woods.
Exhausted, they stopped moving several kilometers and several hours later. It was nearly noon.
Malanowski took another swallow from his field canteen and swished the water around his mouth, before letting it slide down his parched throat. Then he sloshed what was left onto a handkerchief and used it to wipe away the worst of the sweat, smoke, and dust coating his face. With the sun high overhead, the small copse of trees he and his soldiers were hiding in provided welcome shelter from the sweltering heat.
He laid the canteen aside, slumped back against the tree trunk, and studied what was left of his battalion. Besides the six survivors from his command staff, he’d found another twenty or thirty bedraggled infantrymen and footsore vehicle crewmen at the rally point. From there, they’d headed further south, intent on putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the victorious Germans.
Since they’d stopped to rest in this grove, more weary men had come stumbling in by ones and twos. Right now, he had roughly fifty soldiers under his command — armed only with small arms and a few light antitank weapons. The major grimaced. That was just ten percent of the force he’d taken into battle. The rest of his men were dead, captive, or scattered across the countryside.
Once night fell, he planned to lead this ragged, worn-out remnant of his battalion southward again, sticking close to the woods for as long as possible. With a little luck, they could commandeer enough civilian transport to rejoin their own army.
If not… Malanowski sat up straighter. He and his men would fight on as partisans, raiding EurCon’s exposed supply lines and rear areas.
Poland had been beaten before, but her soldiers had fought on. Malanowski had heard the stories again and again as a cadet. Now they would continue that tradition, fighting the enemy any way they could. They had lost a battle, not the war.
A dull red glow in the west marked the setting sun and cast long black shadows over the highway. It was already dark under the trees lining both sides of the road.