Practice

Chapter 100 Practice

The morning after Stalin's summons, the jeep sent by Zhukov arrived on time at the embassy. The driver was a round-faced young man. When Lorraine got in the car, he handed him a paper package containing two pieces of black bread and a sausage.

"The general said you didn't eat breakfast."

Lorraine took it; the bread was still warm.

The car headed west. It was still dark, the streetlights cast a dim yellow glow, and the Moscow morning was biting cold. Once outside the city, the fields were covered with a thin layer of frost, gleaming a pale white in the morning light. The jeep drove for an hour before stopping in front of a row of wooden houses. Behind the houses was a newly dug trench, and beyond that, a bare birch forest.

Zhukov stood at the door of the cabin, his coat unbuttoned, a cigarette between his fingers. His face looked more tired than yesterday, with deep bags under his eyes.

"Come in," he said.

Lorraine followed him into the cabin. There were already five or six people inside, all officers with two or three stars on their epaulets. They were sitting around a long table with a map spread out on it.

Zhukov walked to the table and placed his hands on the edge of the table.

"This is Lorraine. He's from France," he said, without introducing his rank or position. "He fought in North Africa, defeated Rommel, and the recent adjustments to the anti-tank gun positions west of the city were his suggestions."

Several officers looked up at Loran, then looked down at the map. No one welcomed them, no one objected. Their faces were tired, and their eyes were bloodshot.

Zhukov pointed to a highway on the map. "The main German force has been stationed here for three days. They are waiting for fuel. Once the fuel arrives, they will launch a large-scale attack. Our defensive line is too long and we don't have enough troops. I have reviewed the defensive plans of each of your regiments."

He paused.

"They're all facing it head-on."

A colonel raised his hand. "General, that's how it's taught in military academy, and theoretically, it's the right thing to do."

Zhukov didn't reply. He picked up a pencil from the table and drew a circle on the north side of the road.

"Yesterday, German tanks attacked from the gentle slope to the north and were hit on the side by anti-tank guns. Those guns weren't positioned in front of the road; they were placed in a depression. Who placed them there?"

"Loran," Zhukov said.

Loran walked up to the map.

"The anti-tank gun was placed here, with the muzzle facing north. When the German tanks climbed up the gentle slope, the gun would hit their sides."

""

A major raised his hand. "Thinner from the side than from the front?"

"Thin, the frontal armor of the No. 4 is 80 mm thick, and the side armor is only 30 mm thick. A 76 mm gun can penetrate it from 500 meters away."

The major looked at the map and did some calculations. "Our gun mounts are positioned in front of the road, so it can only penetrate the front from 800 meters away. If we position them in a depression and fire from the side, the range can be extended to 1,000 meters."

Lorraine did not say whether it was right or wrong.

The major nodded to himself.

Zhukov put down his pencil. "All regiments must redo their defense plans and submit them within three days. I don't want to see them engage in direct confrontation again."

The officers stood up, saluted, and walked away in unison.

Lorraine also stood up, ready to leave.

Zhukov called out to him, "Wait a minute."

Loran, stop.

Zhukov took out the stack of papers that Lorraine had written yesterday from the drawer and placed them on the table. "I've read what you wrote. It's not enough, too dry. It only has tactics, no explanations."

He lit a cigarette.

"Go to the 3rd Battalion this afternoon and find Kolokoltsev. He's in the west of the city. Stay with him for two days. Answer whatever he asks. Come back and continue writing after two days."

Loran nodded, then turned and walked out.

The jeep was still parked at the entrance. The driver was sitting in the driver's seat, eating a piece of dry food.

"To the west of the city. 3rd Battalion."

The driver stuffed the dry rations into his pocket, started the engine, and the car headed west.

The highway in the west of the city had been bombed beyond recognition. The asphalt surface was uprooted, exposing the gravel and frozen soil underneath. There were bomb craters everywhere on both sides of the highway, one after another, and the trenches stretched out in a winding line, with no end in sight.

Loran walked along the trenches for a long time, turning several corners, and finally found Kolokoltsev next to a machine gun nest. He was crouching behind sandbags, holding binoculars and looking west. His overcoat was covered in mud, and his trousers were half-wet.

"You're here?" He wiped his forehead.

"They're here."

Kolokolitsev put down his binoculars and turned around.

"Marshal Zhukov called. He said you were coming."

He took out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, pulled one out and handed it to Lorraine, who took it.

He said you know how to be flexible.

Loran did not answer.

Kolokolitsev handed the binoculars to Loran. "Look at that grove of trees to the west."

Lorraine raised his binoculars. The woods were two kilometers west of the highway, dark and silent, with a continuous canopy and grayish-white things between the trunks, like vehicles covered with canvas.

"The German tanks are hiding in the woods," Kolokoltsev said. "They come out every night and retreat during the day. The night before last they advanced a kilometer, they didn't move last night, and it's uncertain tonight."

Loran lowered his binoculars. "Which direction should we move?"

"I don't know, they choose a different direction each time."

Lorraine crouched down and picked up a twig from the ground. He drew a rectangle on the ground to represent the forest, and then drew a line on the east side of the rectangle to represent the road.

"How many cannons do you have?"

"Four doors. Seventy-six millimeters."

"ammunition?"

"Forty armor-piercing shells per cannon."

Loran drew a small circle on the north side of the road with a twig. "Put a door here."

Then a circle was drawn on the south side of the road. "Place a door here."

Then he drew a circle behind the gentle slope on the north side. "Place two doors here."

Kolokolitsev looked at the map on the ground.

"The two guns on the road can fire from the front, and the two guns behind the gentle slope can fire from the side. German tanks can fire from the front when they charge from the road, and from the side when they charge from the gentle slope. It's even better if they charge from open ground. The two guns on the front can also be turned around to fire from the side."

Lorraine threw the branch on the ground.

"Give it a try," he said.

Kolokoltsev squatted down and watched for a while, then stood up and called out to those behind him, "Sergei."

A sergeant ran from around the corner of the trench.

"Change the positions of the anti-tank guns." Kolokoltsev pointed to the map on the ground. "Place one on the north side of the road, one on the south side of the road, and two behind the gentle slope on the north side."

The sergeant squatted down, looked at it for a while, and nodded.

Kolokolitsev squatted down again and set up the binoculars on the sandbag.

it's getting dark.

Kolokoltsev suddenly spoke up. "Zhukov said you defeated Rommel in North Africa."

"I didn't defeat them alone."

"But you won."

Loran did not respond.

Kolokolitsev put away his binoculars. "Let's eat."

A soldier brought two bowls of hot soup. The soup was grayish, with a few pieces of potato and a small piece of meat in it. Kolokoltsev took one bowl, took a sip, put the bowl on the ground, and took out his dry rations from his pocket, breaking them into pieces and soaking them in the soup. Loran followed suit, breaking his dry rations into pieces and soaking them in as well. The two of them squatted in the trench and ate with spoons.

It was dark and there was no moon. The wind was blowing from the west, and it was getting colder and colder.

The sound of an engine could be heard in the distance.

The sound grew louder and louder, the roar of the engines blending together like a river flowing in the distance.

Kolokoltsev stood up, raised his binoculars, but the west was pitch black and he could see nothing.

"Tanks, at least twenty of that size," he said calmly.

He put down his binoculars and walked to the corner of the trench, where a field telephone was set up. He cranked the handle a few times and picked up the receiver.

"This is Kolokoltsev. German tanks are coming up the gentle slope from the north, numbering more than twenty. Prepare the anti-tank guns."

He put down the microphone and walked back.

"You step back," he told Loran.

"fine."

Kolokoltsev glanced at him. He crouched behind the sandbags, set up his binoculars, and Loran crouched beside him, unable to see anything.

When the first tank appeared on the gentle slope, the sound of artillery fire rang out from behind the trenches.

A white light suddenly exploded, and a cannonball flew overhead, leaving a dark red streak in the darkness. Loran heard a dull metallic clang, as if something had been punched.

Kolokolitsev squatted in place, his eyes slightly narrowed.

"Panzer IV, hit on the side, at least three."

The engine noise became chaotic, the clanging of metal continued, and streaks of dark red light glided across the night sky.

Suddenly the engine sound started to recede.

Kolokoltsev stood up and brushed the dust off his knees. The phone rang. He went over, answered it, listened for a few seconds, and then hung up.

"At least seven vehicles were hit, and the rest were retreated."

"7

He walked back, squatted down, took a cigarette out of his pocket, put it in his mouth, and took a deep drag.

"Your method works," he said.

Kolokoltsev finished his cigarette, threw the butt on the ground, and stubbed it out with his boot. He stood up and walked along the trench; you could hear his footsteps but not his back.

Loran heard him shouting, "Each platoon take a headcount. Replenish ammunition before dawn."

Loran squatted down to rest.

About an hour later, as dawn approached and light appeared on the eastern horizon, Kolokoltsev returned and squatted down next to Loran.

"You can go back now," he said. "Tell Zhukov that seven cars were shot down tonight."

Loran stood up and dusted off his knees.

"Sergei will take you," Kolokoltsev said.

Loran walked east along the trench. After walking about a hundred meters, he saw Sergeant Sergei standing next to a motorcycle. The motorcycle belonged to the German army and the Iron Cross was still painted on the body, though half of it had been scraped off.

"Get in the car," Sergei said.

Loran straddled the back of the motorcycle. Sergei started the engine, and the motorcycle headed east along the dirt road.

The motorcycle ride took an hour to reach the headquarters of the 5th Army. Loran got off and went into the building. Zhukov was already there, sitting at a table reading documents. When he saw Loran, he put the documents down.

"Seven vehicles were destroyed," Loran said.

"I know." Zhukov picked up a telegram from the table and waved it. "It's from Kolokoltsev."

He put down the telegram, stood up, and walked to the window.

"I had someone copy what you wrote, and distributed a copy to each regiment."

He turned around.

"Go to the 244th Division and find Govorov tomorrow. He needs men too. We really need every tactic you've put into practice; it will reduce casualties considerably." Zhukov sighed. "Defense is relatively easy, but every mistake is fatal, and everyone is under immense pressure."

"I understand," Loran agreed wholeheartedly.

Zhukov stood with his back to him, looking out at the gray sky. Loran felt a sense of peace looking at that figure, and time seemed to stand still.

He recalled the people in Mozhaisk who had chipped away at the walls. The locals used picks, shovels, crowbars, and even their bare hands to build a city like a honeycomb in less than a day. When the Germans came in, they ran out of the tunnels. When the Germans chased after them, they ran out of another tunnel. A significant number of them did not make it out. Andrei did make it out, but he lost his leg. His leg was left in Mozhaisk. Loran did not know where he was now, perhaps in a hospital, perhaps already dead.

Zhukov turned around. "What are you thinking about?"

"Thinking of Mozhaisk," Loran said.

Zhukov walked to the table, sat down, and took out a document from the drawer.

"In Mozhaisk, the defenders suffered 3,700 casualties, but no one has tallied the number of militia deaths."

He put the file back in the drawer.

"Go and rest. Go to the 244th Division tomorrow morning."

Loran saluted, turned and walked out, his expression extremely solemn.

The winter of 1941 was enough to freeze many people to death. He had read some numbers, numbers printed line after line on paper. He didn't think much of them when he read them, but now that he stood here, smelled the smoke of gunpowder, heard the sound of cannons, and saw those mutilated bodies writhing instinctively, he realized how heavy those numbers were.

In the Battle of Moscow, the Soviet army suffered over 650,000 casualties, missing persons, and prisoners of war, a significant portion of whom were young people, even teenagers. They came from Siberia, the Far East, and Central Asia. They traveled for six days and six nights by train, going straight to the battlefield without rest.

The rifles were old, the bullets were scarce, and the military coats were thin. They lay prone in the snow, waiting for the German tanks to charge. Some froze to death before they even arrived, and those who had frozen to death remained lying in the trenches, their faces turned westward.

The 32nd Infantry Division, with 12,000 men transferred from the Far East, fought for five days in Mozhaisk, leaving fewer than 2,000 survivors. The 29th...

The army group transferred from the Urals, 40,000 men were surrounded in Vyazma, and less than 5,000 managed to break out. The 31st Army transferred from Kalinin, 30,000 men fought for three days in Podolsk, and less than 10,000 remained. He remembered these numbers; they were written in Zhukov's pocket. Zhukov had a notebook with a black cover and frayed edges. Loran saw him writing numbers in it, then closing it and putting it back in his pocket. His numbers were alive.

Lorraine walked down the steps and got into the jeep.

"Back to the embassy," he told the driver.

The car drove east, and he leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes. The numbers were still swirling in his mind. Throughout the Great Patriotic War, the Soviet Union lost 27 million people; one in six Soviet citizens did not survive to the end of the war, and those who did were not necessarily healthy. As a result, everyone in the Soviet Union had a fighting spirit after the war.

The car stopped. He opened his eyes; they had arrived at the embassy. He jumped out and walked up the steps. Karl wasn't at the door; a young man had taken his place.

"Where is Carl?"

"He's sick and needs to rest," the young man said with a guilty look on his face.

"Tell him to be careful." Loran sighed as he walked up the stairs.

Participating in the Great Patriotic War was an honor for every Soviet citizen, but those who traveled six days by train from the Far East, those who froze to death in the snow, didn't think about honor. They were thinking of home, of their mothers, of whether they could ever go back.

Most of them didn't go back. They remained on the outskirts of Moscow, beneath the permafrost, without tombstones or names, only mounds of earth, each topped with a wooden sign bearing a number. Each number represented a company, and a company consisted of several hundred people.