Flynn blinked at him. “My compliments to your gunners,” he said, “and inform them that I want them to be ready for a massive shelling of” – he checked the map – “the Germans lines, here, near Neinburg.” Nott bowed once. His command had nearly every British artillery battery and half of the American guns. “Corporal Darling?”
“Sir?” Darling asked. “The air force?”
Flynn nodded. “My compliments to Air Commodore Cromwell and I want him to prepare for heavy bombing operations.” He grinned. “Colonel Toby, summon Generals Stillwell and Rommel,” he ordered. “We have a decisive battle to plan.
The headquarters had been chosen with care; a massive church that had been the pride and joy of the small town before the Allies had begun their invasion. General Walther Model allowed himself a moment of quiet contemplation in the church, before turning to his defences. He scowled; no matter his orders, he knew that there would be only one chance at victory.
“Bastards,” he muttered. He’d heard about the advanced British tanks – and the powerful tanks that the Americans and the renegade Germans had deployed – and he’d never quite believed them. It didn’t seem plausible… until he’d seen a Challenger take ten shots from an anti-tank gun at close range and keep coming. The British were tactically skilled… and they had the firepower to cut their way out of most German traps. Only one Challenger had been disabled – and the RAF had destroyed it on the ground before it could be dragged back to Germany.
“Herr General,” a sentry said, as a dull roar began to appear in the sky. Thousands of black dots moved across the sky, thousands more fell from the air as the planes released their bombs down on the defence lines. Model cursed; the planes were showing diabolical targeting, hitting defences he’d hoped that had escaped detection.
“I saw,” he said. “Send runners to Von Bock; his forces might be needed.”
“Jawohl,” the sentry said, heading off to do Model’s bidding. Model watched grimly as his anti-aircraft guns began to fire, launching rockets and proximity shells into the air. Some aircraft fell, others changed their course, trying to hit the gunners as they poured fire into the sky.
“They’re coming,” he said, and scowled. The defence plan had been simple – most good plans were – but it relied upon the British doing the right thing – or rather the wrong thing. Model hated it on that ground alone – but what other choices did the Reich have?
“Herr General,” one of the other choices said. The SS Obergruppenfuehrer had been charged by Himmler with deployment of the special weapons they’d brought to the front. “Shall we prepare the weapons?”
Despite himself, Model shuddered; the nerve gas canisters were dangerous. He’d noticed that even the SS fanatics carried them carefully. The compressed nerve gas could wipe out an entire division – if they lost containment. And, from what Kesselring had said, using them could mean the end for Germany.
“Not yet,” he said, and hoped that the Obergruppenfuehrer – who hadn’t even deigned to share his name – would obey him. Guderian had been able to force the SS to obey him, but Guderian had been a favourite of the Fuhrer – the then Fuhrer. “We keep those back until we need them.”
The Obergruppenfuehrer’s eyes bulged comically. Model didn’t bother to sneer; the Obergruppenfuehrer was hardly one of the skilled and deadly Waffen-SS, which deserved some respect for their fighting skills, but a lowly man forced forward by circumstances.
“Herr General, we need to use them for maximum effect,” the Obergruppenfuehrer protested. “They might be hit from the air, and then where would we be?”
A lot better off, Model thought coldly. He lifted his pistol. “I am in command of this front and I have the command authority,” he said. “Herr Obergruppenfuehrer, you can obey my orders, or you can place yourself under arrest.”
The Obergruppenfuehrer wilted, confirming Model’s low opinion of him. “Jawohl,” he said. “I will obey your commands.”
“Panzer, march,” someone snapped over the radio. Captain Yates snarled as the Challenger tank moved forward into its launching permission; the briefing had been quicker than he would have believed possible. It had also been simple; the German defence lines are ahead, punch through them.
“Shut up and stay off the airwaves,” Colonel Barrington snapped. “All units; sound off.”
Yates acknowledged in his place, listening to the other tankers as they reported their status. There were no faulty tanks; after two years of warfare, he would have been astonished if there had been any maintenance errors caused by bad training. The entire division was well trained; mechanical skills had been hammered into their skulls by the drill sergeants.
“Very well,” Colonel Barrington said finally. “Captain Yates; you may advance.”
“Yes, sir,” Yates said. “Corporal Benton, start the engine.”
“They don’t pay me enough for this,” Corporal Benton muttered, as the engine burst into life. The Germans had tried to shell the tank-parking park twice and sent in a team of sabotage experts, but the division had remained intact. “Moving out.”
Yates peered through his little portal. In theory, there was a mile to go until they reached the enemy lines. In practice, well, the enemy would be bound to have scouts out, just as the SAS was trying to cause havoc in the enemy rear. The tanks advanced slowly, heading towards the main line… and then a rocket slammed into the armour.
“One German, running,” Sergeant Josephine Grant snapped. “Firing.”
The machine gun chattered and the German fell. Mortar rounds crashed down around them as the drove forward, revealing a German position that had been attempting to mine the road and build a defence line, buying time for their main defence lines to be strengthened still further.
“Fire,” Yates snapped, and Grant put a shell directly into the mortar crew. The explosion killed the crew, the others tried to surrender, except for one SS fanatic, who fired at the tank with a submachine gun.
“Idiot,” Grant muttered, as she mowed him down. The other Germans surrendered to the infantry, allowing the Challengers to press on through the fields, watching carefully for signs of attack.
“There,” Yates snapped, as a shell slammed into the tank. The Germans had carefully constructed an entire trench, half-hidden by the foliage, which held three massive guns. He cursed as a shell struck one of the IFV units and blew it away, followed by more shells landing around the division.
“Open fire,” he snapped, and Grant obeyed, slamming seven shells into the entire structure. One of the shells was a modified FAE design, designed to start a fire, and it exploded in the centre of the trench. Germans ran forward, throwing grenades, and Yates cursed as he realised how deep the trenches ran.
“There’s an entire anthill under here,” he snapped. “We need to burn them out.”
“On it,” Grant said, and she fired again. The German tunnels were becoming exposed as the shells dug into the camouflage, blowing it away. Yates scowled; the Germans might have hidden an entire infantry battalion under the ground and they would never have noticed.
He cursed and lifted his radio. “We need infantry support,” he snapped. “Bring up more infantry, quickly.”
The tiny SAS squadron wore German SS uniforms, except Chang, who had been handcuffed with a pair of fake handcuffs. Dwynn grinned to himself; even unarmed Chang was death on two legs. The handcuffs looked real, but a single hard yank could shatter them.