They’ll be coming soon, he thought, grimly. The enemy would be advancing already, relying on the bombardment to force the defenders to keep their heads down. And we’re out here to greet them.
He scooped up the antitank rocket launcher and scowled as he took up position in the foxhole, peering west. The irony was going to kill him, perhaps literally. He’d battled his way through countless enemy positions where the enemy soldiers had fired a shot or two at him and then fled, only to be landed in the same position himself. But there was a difference; the rebels had had friends and comrades to cover their retreat, while the penal battalion had none. Chances were they’d be shot in the back if they didn’t make it back to friendly lines under their own steam.
“Hold position,” Kuhn bellowed. “Watch for the advance!”
At least he’s not a coward, Hennecke conceded, ruefully. Two of the company’s newest members had been shot for attempted desertion, after they’d been caught trying to sneak out of the camp. But that means he’ll just keep us here until it’s too late.
He shook his head in frustration. They’d been issued with antitank weapons, but no pistols or rifles. Kuhn was the only man in the squad with a personal weapon. Hennecke could see the logic — it wasn’t as if the squad was particularly motivated to fight if they had a choice — but it was frustrating. Standard doctrine called for infantry to move up beside the panzers, covering them from enemy infantry who were doing… well, precisely what Hennecke and his unwilling comrades were doing. And if they did see enemy infantry, they’d have no choice, but to retreat at once.
Which wouldn’t be bad, Hennecke thought, if it didn’t run the risk of us being branded cowards.
He’d been lucky, he knew. The deserters hadn’t been the only men to be shot as the officers reasserted control. Being sent to the penal battalion was bad, but a number of other men had been shot — or hanged — just to make it clear that the officers were still in command. They’d pulled the different divisions back together at a very high cost. Hennecke wouldn’t have been too surprised if they’d killed one in ten men just to make the point.
They would, if they weren’t so short of manpower, he thought. The shells were falling further and further eastwards, hammering the lines drawn up near Warsaw. They’re stuck with us for the moment.
He flinched as a trio of aircraft roared overhead, heading east. It was hard to be sure, but they looked like jet fighters rather than ground-attack aircraft, probably trying to smash the remaining aircraft defending Warsaw. No bombs fell as they vanished into the distance; he saw a pair of missiles rise up from a position further east, only to fall back to the ground as they lost their targets. They simply weren’t good enough to catch modern aircraft.
“Here they come,” Kuhn snapped. “Choose your targets, but I’ll have the head of any man who fires without my permission.”
Hennecke sucked in his breath. Panzers — five of them — were advancing up the road towards the town, their weapons sweeping from side to side as they looked for targets. A handful of mounted infantry followed them, riding in armoured vehicles that would have been safe enough, off a modern battlefield. But he knew from bitter experience that an antitank missile would make short work of them. He wondered, absently, if he should be shooting at the transports rather than the panzers, but Kuhn would strangle him — personally — if he disobeyed orders. The panzers were priority targets.
Doesn’t take an idiot to know we’re short on panzers, Hennecke thought, as he took careful aim. They probably want to waste as many enemy panzers as they can before they crash into our panzers.
He gritted his teeth as he waited for the order to fire. Kuhn might think they had a good chance of landing a blow and getting out, but Hennecke wasn’t so sure. They hadn’t had time to set up escape trenches, let alone pre-position vehicles to allow them to make a rapid escape. Hell, their sole objective — as far as Hennecke could tell — was to bleed the enemy a little before they got brutally crushed. And there was no way they could kill everyone coming at them without more weapons…
“Fire,” Kuhn bellowed.
Hennecke pulled the trigger. The missile leapt from its launcher — Hennecke rapidly discarded the remainder of the device — and slammed into the nearest panzer, which staggered to a halt. Two more went up in fireballs, a third taking the missile on its armour plating and continuing, apparently undamaged. Hennecke scrambled up out of the foxhole and crawled for his life as the enemy opened fire, bullets snapping through the air bare millimetres above his head. Kuhn was barking orders as they ran, but Hennecke couldn’t make out any of the words. All he could do was crawl until he reached cover, no matter how puny it was, then run as hard as he could.
He glanced behind him as the sound of shooting grew louder. The enemy panzers were smashing through the foxholes, crunching their way into the town. He couldn’t tell if any of the squad had been killed or captured, although he wouldn’t bet against it. They had just been far too exposed for comfort.
Kuhn slapped his back as he ran past. “Run!”
Hennecke nodded. Someone was dropping shells on the town… it struck him, suddenly, that there had been a plan after all. The higher-ups had plotted out the town as a target, preparing their mortars to ensure they gave the enemy a hot reception. And his squad had been put in place to delay the enemy long enough to let the mortar crews open fire.
And it worked, he thought, sourly. But how many of us did it kill?
“We’re meeting resistance,” the dispatcher said.
“Understood,” Field Marshal Gunter Voss growled. He hadn’t expected an unopposed march to Warsaw, even if the Waffen-SS was smart enough to realise that they needed to play for time. “Heavy resistance?”
“Just small ambushes,” the dispatched reported. “But they’re causing considerable delays.”
“Of course,” Gunter said.
He studied the map, wishing — just for a moment — that he had a tactical interface like his American counterparts. He’d mocked the concept when he’d first heard of it — both to his comrades and in print — yet he had to admit it might have its uses. American commanders might have less latitude than their Heer counterparts — and their superiors would be watching over their shoulders — but their superiors would have a far better idea of what was actually going on
The enemy tactics made sense — indeed, he’d predicted precisely what the enemy would do while he’d been drawing up the plans. Standing and fighting would be ideal, from his point of view, but he knew better than to rely on the enemy doing what he wanted them to do. No commander worthy of the name would allow his forces to be pocketed in a caldron and crushed if he could avoid it. And slowing up his advance would be enough to give the enemy time to pull back and escape the pockets.
“Order the advance units to keep pushing forward,” he ordered. “And move the secondary units up ahead of schedule. Warn them to keep sweeping the landscape for surprises.”