“Call it in,” he grunted, as the squad reassembled. “Tell them we’re waiting for…”
He hit the ground, again, as a splatter of bullets passed over his head. Rolling over, he saw a pair of enemy soldiers briefly visible within the church tower before they ducked back out of sight. There had been an enemy presence in the village after all! He swore under his breath as he directed his men forward, considering their options. Normally, he would have called in artillery support — or an airstrike — but he had a feeling that the gunners were occupied elsewhere. And using the other buildings for cover was probably out of the question. There was no way to know how many of them had been rigged to blow.
Crap, he thought, grimly. We need to move.
He barked out a string of orders, then led the first squad forward while the second opened fire on the tower. Herman doubted they would hit anything worth the effort — none of his men were particularly good shots, even the ex-policemen — but they would force the enemy to keep their heads down. He braced himself as he slipped up to a house, half-expecting it to explode, then moved forward. Two enemy soldiers, clearly visible by the church entrance, lifted their rifles as they approached. Herman opened fire, spraying them both with bullets, then ducked back as another bullet cracked against the wall, missing him by bare millimetres.
We’re not going to get into the church, he told himself, as he unhooked a pair of grenades from his belt. They’ll have everything sealed.
He tossed the first grenade through the nearest window, then threw the second as soon as the first exploded. A third explosion shook the ground a second later, detonating with such force that the entire building began to collapse. Herman had a brief vision of a man falling to the ground before he vanished into the rubble. He stayed back as the church fell to pieces, then peered forward carefully. The threat seemed to have vanished.
“Got a message from HQ,” the radioman said, as Herman watched the debris settle. “They want us to leave the rest of the town alone, but hold position.”
Herman allowed himself a moment of relief. HQ would probably send someone to check the town for unpleasant surprises, eventually. The owners, whoever they were, might just be able to get back to their homes, even though they had been looted. But then, who cared about the looting as long as the buildings themselves were intact?
They’re not all intact, he reminded himself, darkly. And the fighting may sweep back over them at any moment.
He motioned for his men to follow him on a brief patrol of the village, then peered into the distance. Smoke was rising from the direction of Warsaw, reminding him that there was a major offensive underway. He could hear everything from explosions to gunshots, echoing in the air; brief flashes of light flickered and flared before vanishing into nothingness. He’d seen war before, during his service, but this was different. Whoever won the battle, whoever won the war… the Reich itself would lose.
This is Ragnarok, he thought numbly, as a formation of aircraft roared overhead. The twilight of the gods.
“The advance elements are encountering more and more booby traps,” the aide reported, grimly. “They’re slowing down.”
Field Marshal Gunter Voss gritted his teeth in frustration, although he wasn’t too surprised at the news. Reports from prowling aircraft had made it clear that the Waffen-SS was retreating, trying to get as much of its mobile forces out of the caldron as it could before it was too late. Gunter couldn’t blame them, either. It was what he would have done, in their place. Allowing entire divisions of panzers to be pocketed and destroyed would shorten the war.
They learned from us, he thought, cursing the irony. The Provisional Government had used delaying tactics to slow the SS juggernaut during its advance on Berlin — and now the SS was using the same tactics to slow his armoured thrusts. And they may get away with it too.
He chewed his cigar as the next set of updates flowed into the HQ. Warsaw itself was important, but he wanted — he needed — to crush the SS’s mobile forces. He had no doubt he could starve Warsaw out, if nothing else, but Warsaw was irrelevant as long as the enemy panzer divisions remained largely intact. And time was not on his side. Putting the offensive together at such speed had been hard enough, but he knew he couldn’t sustain the advance indefinitely.
And if we don’t destroy their mobile forces, we will have to go into winter quarters and prepare for a spring offensive, he reminded himself. And even if we win, we will lose.
“Order the panzers to avoid towns and other likely ambush sites,” he said, after a long moment. “And move up additional infantry to sweep the region.”
“Jawohl.”
Gunter gritted his teeth. “And tell the panzer commanders to keep pushing forward,” he added. “They are to stop for nothing.”
“Jawohl,” his aide said.
It was a race now, Gunter saw. His forces had to race to encircle and pocket the SS, while the SS needed to break out of the trap before it was too late. And he had a nasty feeling he might just lose. He’d expected the SS to stand and fight, not start retreating. They’d practically started falling back as soon as the offensive began, sacrificing their best chance to savage his forces.
But they are not fools, Gunter reminded himself, sternly. Karl Holliston had no formal military experience, but whoever was in tactical command on the other side would be a very experienced SS officer. They might have decided to give up Warsaw while withdrawing deeper into Germany East.
He shook his head. “Order the third-line units to begin their advance,” he added. “Tell them to thrust forward as hard as they can.”
“Jawohl.”
Gunter felt his scowl deepen. The SS were already struggling to delay his armoured pincers; now, they’d have a third armoured force advancing against their fortified positions. It would put immense pressure on their lines, but the SS were renowned for their discipline. They might break — or they might not. Either way…
The battle isn’t over, he told himself, firmly. And they haven’t escaped yet.
“Get up,” Kuhn snapped. “They’re coming!”
Hennecke scrambled out of the trench and joined the other soldiers as they started to move eastwards, once again. A handful of stormtroopers took up position in the trench, ready to bleed the enemy — again — before joining the retreat. Hennecke was surprised he and the other penal soldiers hadn’t been issued more weapons, but there were apparently shortages everywhere. The pressure of the offensive was steadily breaking through the lines.
He forgot dignity — and training — as he heard shooting breaking out behind him, lowering his head and running for his life. Other soldiers fled too, trying desperately to get away from the armoured spearheads before it was too late. Hennecke had heard stories — gruesome stories — of panzers crushing unarmed men beneath their treads, something the Einsatzgruppen had done in Germany East to force insurgents to talk. Why wouldn’t the rebels do the same? Everyone knew they hated the SS.