Chapter 73
Chapter 73
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 73
Chapter Title: What Are We Fighting For (3)
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December 24, 1939
Eastern Germany, 8th Military District, Breslau - Upper Silesia
Since the 20th, a fierce Polish offensive had been hammering Upper Silesia.
“Die! You goddamn Poles!”
“Wiwat Polski!”
On a battlefield awash with bullets, the Northern Army Group was being pushed back bit by bit, taking continuous losses.
“Aaaargh, Mamaaaa!”
Watching a comrade—one who had shared the same tasteless combat rations with him just that morning—lie on the ground, screaming as he clutched the red masses spilling from his stomach, was enough to drive even a sane man to madness.
“Die, dieeeee!”
“Ugh, get down!”
The machine gunner, his eyes bloodshot as he fired his MG34 in a half-crazed frenzy, was blown to pieces by a shell that landed beside him with a deafening roar.
“Urgh, uweck!”
The soldier who had shouted the warning vomited at the sight of his comrade’s remains, only to be shot and collapse into his own sick, motionless.
“HQ, HQ! This is 2nd Company! The enemy attack is too fierce! At this rate, we’ll all be—”
“Captain!”
Captain Clemens Fleck was screaming into the radio when his adjutant suddenly shoved him to the ground.
“Ugh!”
Clemens felt a chill run down his spine as he saw a fighter plane strafe the very spot where he had been standing moments before.
[Second Company, this is Battalion HQ. The entire front is in the same situation. Hold your current position at all costs.]
The transmission from headquarters regrettably ended after they had said their piece.
“Damn it all to hell! Are they telling us to die here?”
Clemens yelled at his poor adjutant, but it wasn't as if the adjutant knew the answer.
Behind Clemens and his company, a newly arrived tank began to rumble toward the front. Its distinctive engine roar and the clatter of its tracks drew cheers from the men.
“Ooh, a Panzer IV!”
Though it was just a single medium tank, unlikely to have a major impact on the entire theater, its presence was a significant morale booster for the infantrymen defending their flimsy trench line.
But the Panzer IV was unlucky. As it turned its turret toward an enemy tank that had spotted it first, it took a direct hit and fell silent.
“Aargh, damn it!”
The Polish army's main tank, the 7TP, was only a light tank, but its main gun could still inflict serious damage on a Panzer IV. They were pressing their advantage hard against the German forces, already weakened by the surprise attack.
“Where are the assault guns?”
Clemens shouted in alarm, but the low-cost StuG IIIs and tank destroyers that had helped them withstand the initial Polish assault had mostly been reduced to smoldering heaps of scrap metal in the chaotic fighting.
Clemens cautiously peeked over the edge of the trench and saw the Polish forces advancing with several more 7TP tanks at their lead. He quickly ducked back down.
“Oh, God, no! We’re all going to die!”
“Ca-Captain! Calm down!”
“If I die here, I’ll curse that bastard Dietrich! I hope he becomes impotent!”
A man who was Vice-Chancellor should have been able to stick his friend somewhere safe, not on the front lines!
Fortunately, his curse against his unfortunate friend was not to be realized.
The Polish forces, advancing with their tanks toward Clemens’s trench line, suddenly fell into disarray and began to flee in terror.
“What? What’s going on?”
The mystery was solved in an instant.
Bf 109 fighters streaked through the air over Clemens and his men, tearing into the Polish troops with their machine guns. Stukas, diving from the sky with a deafening shriek, turned every Polish tank into a flaming coffin.
“Oh, oooh! The Luftwaffe!”
From the cockpit, Adolf Galland glanced down at the grunts cheering wildly on the ground and smirked.
The Luftwaffe, which had been mostly deployed south to push the Italian front, had been the first to fly in to support the Northern Army Group in their desperate struggle against the Poles.
Galland took a puff from the cigar clamped in his mouth as he banked his fighter and began to chase a slow-moving Polish aircraft that was trying to flee.
As Galland's Bf 109 closed in, the enemy plane tried everything to shake him off—diving, climbing, and banking sharply.
“The pilot’s not half bad…”
But Galland mirrored the poor pilot’s every move, sticking to his tail before tearing his wing apart with a burst of cannon fire.
“But his aircraft just can’t keep up.”
The enemy plane immediately lost altitude and began to plummet. With any luck, he’d bail out and survive.
For a man who treated even life-or-death dogfights like a sport, the survival of an already-downed enemy pilot was of little concern.
As Galland drew on his cigar again, a Polish fighter swooped in on his tail.
“Well now, what’s this?”
Galland uttered, sounding unfazed despite the danger, and immediately executed a sharp turn. The Polish fighter, unaware it was being baited, tried to follow, only to have its fuselage torn open by another Bf 109 attacking from the flank. It erupted in flames and fell to the earth.
“Whew~”
Recognizing the aircraft of his comrade, Werner Mölders, Adolf Galland chuckled, imagining the smug look on his friend’s face when they got back.
The Luftwaffe fighters employed the Schwarm tactic devised by Werner Mölders, a formation in which fighters worked together in a fluid, mutually supportive manner. His doctrine had already been proven in Spain.
Against the Luftwaffe, seasoned by their experience with the Condor Legion and on the Italian front, the Polish Air Force—inferior in both aircraft and doctrine—was no match and quickly lost control of the skies.
Glancing to the side, Galland could see Stukas and Hs 123s flying frantically, systematically destroying the Polish forces on the ground now that their air cover was gone.
“General von Richthofen will be sorry he couldn’t see this sight for himself.”
Galland muttered to himself, then checked his fuel and began his return to base, flying over the heads of the army troops who were still cheering up at the sky.
The first Polish offensive, which had brought the Northern Army Group defending Upper Silesia to the brink of collapse with a surprise attack, was narrowly thwarted as the timely arrival of the Luftwaffe seized air superiority.
***
December 24, 1939
Berlin, Northern Germany
Despite it being Christmas Eve, our government was having an incredibly busy day.
When the civil war ended, I thought I’d be able to spend a quiet Christmas with Claudia this year, but reality…
My father, having just caught his breath after writing off a large portion of the Mefo-bill bonds, was now busy proposing joint ventures with corporations to revive the staggering economy in the wake of the general mobilization order.
It was a relief that the Ministry of Labor's post-new-government initiative to educate and employ female workers was beginning to show some modest results. At least it was better than the mess in Nazi Germany.
Foreign Minister von Weizsäcker was trying to win Britain’s support, but Halifax’s response remained lukewarm.
Unlike Finland, which they could support as a gesture of goodwill without much consequence, we didn't seem desperate enough for them, having successfully repelled not only a civil war but also a Polish offensive.
President Roosevelt of the United States had expressed his personal support, but Congress argued that the U.S. couldn't provide aid when even Britain was standing pat, especially after passing the Neutrality Acts. As a result, he couldn’t offer any substantial assistance yet.
However, the U.S. did officially sanction the purchase of ‘non-military’ goods like fuel and trucks, which had previously been routed through the Netherlands, to be conducted directly with us.
This had been a chronic problem for Nazi Germany, so it was a great help in allowing us to maintain our armored divisions and manage our supply lines more smoothly.
I was in charge of military affairs, which my father did not touch. It was a natural role for me, as Defense Minister Beck and I were the only high-ranking government officials with military rank.
“Vice-Chancellor, the winter clothing you requested is being distributed to the frontline troops more or less on schedule. We can’t manage it for the mobilized reserves, though.”
I let out a sigh of relief at Field Marshal Ludwig Beck’s words.
“That’s a relief, at least.”
That damned Hitler couldn’t even be bothered with non-combat losses during the Soviet-German war, too busy transporting Jews and poison gas. At least we weren't making such foolish mistakes.
There was nothing more absurd than able-bodied soldiers getting frostbite or becoming unable to fight due to the severe cold.
The Polish offensive on the Eastern Front had been threatening, but we had managed to hold them off, thanks to our air superiority and the fact that, aside from the 7TP, Polish tanks weren't much of a threat to our Panzer IVs or StuG IIIs.
Although they had occupied parts of Upper Silesia and southern East Prussia, the front had reached a stalemate, and the sudden drop in temperature had temporarily slowed the Polish advance.
But the divisions currently defending the German homeland numbered only ten in East Prussia and nine in Silesia. With Polish forces confirmed at 45 divisions, we were outnumbered by more than two to one.
We had managed to hold on because they had concentrated their offensive on East Prussia and Silesia, the territories they claimed as their own. But if they changed their plans and started to attack across the vast border, we would be in deep trouble.
“This is the operational plan sent from the Southern Army Group.”
General von Manstein unfolded the plan designed to break the current impasse.
The plan called for the Southern Army Group, currently deployed in Northern Italy across Veneto and South Tyrol, to retreat and shorten the front line. From there, they would leave only 15 divisions and send the remaining 25 divisions north to the German homeland.
If this operation succeeded, the balance of forces would be 45 Polish divisions to our 44.
The 19 divisions of the Northern Army Group were already battered, but with air superiority and our advantage in armored and artillery strength, we would have a fighting chance in a defensive war.
“The commander of the Southern Army Group in Italy, Colonel General Erwin von Witzleben, has put this forward. The plan was drafted by his chief of staff, Lieutenant General Walter Model.”
Manstein spoke with a rare gravity. Even he, who was second to none in his lack of tact, understood that the entire war effort hinged on this operation.
“According to this plan, the Southern Army Group will retreat, using South Tyrol as a salient to block enemy counterattacks, and then fall back further to Tyrol to establish a defensive line.”
With its flanks secured by the borders of Yugoslavia and Switzerland, a defensive line anchored in the Alps would be optimal for holding the front.
The problem was—
“The Italian army has a total of 42 divisions. The Southern Army Group must defend the South Tyrol salient with 15 divisions to cover the retreat of our forces, then cross the Alps themselves to establish a defensive line in Tyrol.”
It sounded daunting just hearing it.
“I was the one who requested the 25 divisions, but to be frank, if they pull this off, the Southern Army Group will go down as heroes in the annals of military history.”
Manstein said this as he lit a cigar.
“So, Model and the Southern Army Group staff came up with this plan?”
“Yes, Minister. Frankly, the man who drew this up is either a greater genius than I am or a complete madman. But if this crazy plan fails, there's no guarantee we can withstand the next Polish offensive.”
Manstein's reply to Ludwig Beck's question sounded—uncharacteristically—annoyed.
My throat felt dry. Walter Model. The Lion of Defense. The Führer's Fireman. It seemed he was now to become the Fourth Reich's Fireman.
…But was this really possible?
Even I, with my knowledge of the original history and basic staff training, was skeptical.
“Our role will be crucial during the withdrawal phase to the Alps.”
The speaker was the Air Force Chief of Staff, Wolfram von Richthofen. He had insisted on flying missions on the front lines in Italy, but had come here at our earnest request to please attend a strategy meeting.
Manstein remained silent, puffing on his cigar. Even for a man who loved to break things, the words to order such a plan into action did not come easily.
“...I trust you, Commander.”
When I spoke, Richthofen grinned.
“Ah, I've worked with that fellow Model before. Don't you worry. I’ll give him my full support.”
Beck took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow, then sighed.
“Good heavens, I really have become an old fossil. I can’t keep up with the ideas of these young men.”
“Well, we’re out of time and other options. The fact that General von Witzleben approved it means the plan must be at least plausible.”
General Erwin von Witzleben. A general who had cooperated with us from the early days of the coup, and the man who had defended General Model when he chose to be arrested rather than surrender.
He and General Model would surely succeed.
Didn't military history call Walter Model a miracle worker? I could only hope that reputation would hold true in this world as well.
“Hmph, very well. Let them proceed.”
As Ludwig Beck gave his consent, Manstein took a deep drag from his cigar, stubbed it out in an ashtray, and opened his mouth.
“I’ll be green with envy if they actually pull this off…”