Shaking

Chapter 103 Shaking

West of Moscow, the positions of the German Army Group Center.

It was still dark. The temperature had dropped to minus fifteen degrees Celsius overnight, and the snow in the trenches had frozen, making a crunching sound when stepped on.

The soldiers huddled in their overcoats, thin, windless autumn combat uniforms. The cotton was soaked with snowmelt and clung to their bodies like a wet rag. Some stuffed newspapers into their clothes, while others wore captured Soviet cotton-padded coats underneath German overcoats—different colors, gray-green and khaki, ugly, but warmer.

Those who didn't manage to get a cotton-padded coat could only keep warm by shivering.

Guderian was awakened by the cold at five o'clock that morning. His command vehicle had no heating, and the windows were covered with frost. He wiped them with his gloves, and the frost was gone, revealing only darkness outside the glass.

He sat up, put on his overcoat—a woolen one, thicker than the soldiers', but still not enough. He turned on his flashlight and checked his watch: 5:03. He remembered the temperature forecast from last night: -12 degrees Celsius. The forecast was inaccurate; it was colder than predicted. He pushed open the door of the command vehicle, jumped out, and his boots crunched on the snow, which was up to his ankles. He stood beside the vehicle, exhaling a breath of air; the white mist condensed in the cold air, lingering for a long time.

His adjutant ran over from the nearby tent, his uniform unbuttoned and his face red from the cold.

"General, a report from the 10th Armored Division."

Guderian took the report and held it close to the beam of the flashlight to read it. The report was short, only a few lines long.

"Fuel reserves are only sufficient to sustain a battalion-sized offensive. For larger-scale operations, all non-essential maneuvers, including reconnaissance and patrols, must be halted before the offensive."

He stared at those lines of text for a long time. This wasn't the first time the 10th Armored Division had requested additional fuel. They'd requested it last week, and the week before. Each time they'd said they were at their limit, and each time they'd said they could last a few more days. But this time, he knew it was real, because on his way here he'd seen those tanks parked by the roadside. Gray hulls covered in frost, gun barrels pointing skyward, tracks stuck in the snow, motionless. The hatches on the turrets were closed, and no one was inside; everyone was in the tents nearby, warming themselves around the stove.

Guderian folded the report and put it in his pocket without replying.

He didn't know what to say.

Saying "the oil will arrive soon"? The oil won't arrive soon; it's still behind, piled up at a train station west of Smolensk, waiting to be loaded onto trains.

Saying "hold on for a few more days"? The 10th Armored Division has already held on for many days. He turned and walked back to the command vehicle, closing the door. He took a map from his map bag and spread it on his lap.

This is a battlefield situation map west of Moscow, densely marked with red and blue pencil lines, newly drawn lines overlapping old ones, revised again and again. His finger lands on the location of his own defensive zone, slowly moving eastward, then further east. Moscow is just to the east, less than twenty-five kilometers as the crow flies. Twenty-five kilometers, his tank could reach it in half an hour, but his tank's fuel tank is dry.

He recalled what he had seen during his inspection of the front lines last week. A Panzer IV tank was crouching behind a trench, its gun barrel pointing east, the engine cover open, and a mechanic squatting beside it, wiping the fuel lines with a rag. Guderian asked him what was wrong, and the mechanic said the fuel lines were clogged; the fuel was too thick to flow. Diesel fuel becomes viscous below zero degrees Celsius, and almost turns into a paste at minus ten degrees Celsius. Before adding the fuel to the tank, it had to be heated with a blowtorch. After pouring it in, it would run for a while and then clog again. The tank crew joked that their tanks weren't brought down by the enemy, but by the freezing weather.

Guderian remembered that sentence for a long time.

The adjutant handed Guderian another report, from the 2nd Panzer Division, concerning the ammunition problem. The number of shells could only support three days of defensive operations; if they wanted to attack, they wouldn't last two. The supply line was too long, nearly a thousand kilometers from Warsaw to the Moscow front, requiring changing trains at every point. German-made trains were used within Poland, but after crossing the border, they had to switch to Soviet broad-gauge trains, with the unloaded supplies loaded onto trucks to continue. The trucks also faced difficulties; the roads were ravaged by tanks, softened by rain, and covered by snow. Trucks would get stuck, blocking the way for the trucks behind them, waiting for the trucks in front to be towed out, or for the supplies to be transferred to another truck. By the time they reached the front, the shells were already exhausted.

Guderian set the report aside; he didn't write a reply, and even if he did, he wouldn't know what to write. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for a while. In his mind, the tanks parked by the roadside were still there, one after another, lined up in a row, stretching as far as the eye could see, their gun barrels pointing in the same direction.

On November 3, 1941, the first cold wave arrived.

The temperature drop occurred at night. At dusk, the temperature was still around zero degrees Celsius, and the soldiers could still move around in the trenches. In the latter half of the night, the wind suddenly changed direction and blew from the north, carrying snow pellets that felt like sandpaper rubbing against their faces. By dawn, the temperature had plummeted to minus twelve degrees Celsius.

When they climbed out of the trench in the morning, they found that the rifle bolts wouldn't pull. The lubricating oil in the bolt had solidified at the low temperature, sticking the bolt and receiver together, and they couldn't even pry them apart with their fists. Someone stuffed the rifle into their coat to warm it with their body heat, and after half an hour, the bolt could move, but after a few pulls, it froze again. The machine gun was even worse. The MG-34 general-purpose machine gun was a precision weapon, requiring high levels of maintenance. At minus twelve degrees Celsius, the bolt assembly contracted, the tolerances tightened, and with the lubricating oil solidified, the first shot could be fired, but the second would jam. The machine gunners disassembled the bolt, washed off the lubricating oil with gasoline, and then reassembled it for dry grinding. It could fire with dry grinding, but the wear was severe, and after firing only a few belts, the bolt was unusable.

The worst off were the artillery. The German anti-tank guns were 37mm main guns, sufficient against the British in France and, in the early Soviet era, against T-26s and BT-7s. But when they reached the outskirts of Moscow, they faced T-34s. The T-34's frontal armor was virtually impenetrable to most German anti-tank guns in 1941; the 37mm guns couldn't penetrate it even above freezing, and at sub-zero temperatures, the barrel contracted, the trajectory changed, making penetration even more impossible. The artillerymen could only watch helplessly as Soviet tanks drove past, they fired, the shells bounced off, they fired again, and the shells bounced off again.

In his diary that day, Guderian recorded: The 10th Panzer Division reported that an infantry battalion had suffered over two hundred casualties due to frostbite. A battalion of two thousand men, with one-tenth unable to move due to frostbite, and that didn't even include combat casualties. He added these figures together and calculated the total losses of the 2nd Panzer Army; the number was considerable, but not enough to cause collapse. However, the problem was that the weather was getting colder, more and more people would suffer from frostbite, equipment would become increasingly difficult to use, and resupply would become increasingly difficult. These numbers weren't just calculations; they were happening.

At noon on November 4, 1941, Guderian ate lunch in his command vehicle. Lunch consisted of a bowl of hot soup and two slices of dark bread. The soup was made with beef bones and salted, but there were hardly any vegetables. The bread had been baked the day before and was no longer fresh; it was as hard as a rock and crumbled when broken.

This was another logistical problem for the German army. Hot meals couldn't reach the front lines. Meal wagons would prepare the food, pack it into insulated containers, and transport it by truck. The roads were too long and too bad, making it difficult for the trucks to travel quickly. By the time the containers reached the front, the soup was cold. Drinking cold soup didn't warm the body; instead, it made the stomach feel worse. Some units simply stopped sending hot meals and issued dry rations instead. These dry rations consisted of compressed biscuits, canned goods, and chocolate, which could be eaten without heating, but these items hardened at low temperatures, becoming too hard to chew. Soldiers would stuff the dry rations into their clothes, warming them with their body heat before eating them.

Guderian swallowed the last bite of bread and placed the bowl on the table. He wasn't full, but he didn't want to eat anymore. He stood up, got out of the command vehicle, and went to check on the 10th Panzer Division's positions.

The snow had stopped outside, but the sky remained a hazy gray, the sun hidden from view. A cold wind blew from the north, causing the hem of his coat to flutter. He got into the command vehicle, and the driver started the engine. The engine churned a few times before starting. The vehicle headed west; the road was terrible, riddled with craters and gravel. He leaned back in his seat, looking out the window. The fields were a dark gray, covered with patches of snow.

In the distance, several destroyed tanks lay askew by the roadside, their turrets blown off, their bodies overturned, and the wind making their tracks spin.

After about an hour's drive, we arrived at the headquarters of the 10th Armored Division. The headquarters was located in an abandoned village, several wooden houses huddled together, their roofs piled high with snow. A few soldiers were squatting under an old oak tree at the village entrance, smoking. Their overcoats were covered in mud and snow, their collars turned up, and their hat brims pulled low. Some had taken off their gloves; their fingers were red with cold, warmed by the heat of their cigarettes.

Guderian jumped out of the car and entered the largest wooden hut. The room was dark; a kerosene lamp hung from a pillar, its dim light illuminating the faces of several people. General Stauffen, the division commander, stood before a map, wearing a captured Soviet cotton-padded coat over a German overcoat. The oversized coat bulged out of the overcoat, making him look less like a general and more like a child wearing an adult's clothes. He saw Guderian, stood at attention, and saluted.

"General."

"How's the situation?" Guderian walked up to the map.

Stauffen pointed to the defensive line markings on the map. "Last night, the Soviets launched a small-scale attack about three kilometers to the west. About a company, no tanks. Our infantry repelled them, but a gap was torn in the line, and it took two hours to repair it." He paused. "Frostbite casualties are severe. The number of frostbite casualties in the infantry battalion has exceeded combat casualties. Many can't stand, their feet are frostbitten, and they can't walk."

Staufen glanced at Guderian. "We need winter clothes. If they aren't sent now, my soldiers will freeze to death."

Guderian didn't speak. He knew where the winter clothing was. It was piled up in Warsaw, Minsk, Smolensk, at various transit points, waiting to be loaded, transferred, and loaded again. The railway capacity was insufficient, and so was the road capacity. Army Group Center's logistics department had done its utmost, but the distance was too great, the road conditions too poor, and the weather too cold; everything was moving slower than expected. He said, "The winter clothing is on its way. Just a few more days."

Staufen looked at him, seemingly wanting to say something, but remained silent. He lowered his head and continued studying the map. Guderian turned and walked out of the cabin. He stood at the village entrance, looking west. It was getting dark. The clouds were low and thick, obscuring the sun. The wind grew colder, making the branches whistle. He stood there, thinking of his winter clothes. Not the soldiers' winter clothes, but his own. His overcoat was thinner than usual. When he returned, he would have his adjutant fetch a cotton-padded coat from the supply depot; even a captured one would do, as long as it was wearable.

On the evening of November 4, 1941, Guderian returned to his command post.

He went into the command post, took off his overcoat, and hung it on the hanger behind the door. The overcoat was covered in snow, which had melted and dripped onto the ground. He walked to the table, sat down, took a pencil from the drawer, and began to write a letter to Marshal Bock, commander of Army Group Center.

He wrote slowly, each word heavily. He wrote: "Fuel reserves are only enough to sustain one battalion-sized offensive. Ammunition reserves can only support three days of defensive operations. Frostbite casualties continue to rise; the number of infantry battalions with frostbite has exceeded combat casualties. Anti-tank guns are essentially ineffective against T-34 tanks. If the situation continues to deteriorate, I will be unable to carry out any offensive missions."

He finished writing, read it over, folded it, and stuffed it into an envelope. He then had his adjutant deliver it. The adjutant took the letter, turned, and left.

He sat alone at the table. The light was on, dim and yellow. The wind was strong outside, making the window frames rattle.

He remembered the young soldier he'd seen on the battlefield earlier that day. Crouching in the trench, rifle clutched to his chest, muzzle pointing east. His face was purple with cold, his lips cracked, and his fingers were wrapped in tattered strips of cloth, the cloths making his fingers look like tiny tufts of cloth. His fingers were frostbitten. Guderian walked over and asked, "Are you cold?" The soldier didn't answer. He glanced at Guderian, his eyes showing no anger, no fear, only a deep numbness. The kind of numbness one develops after being frozen for a long time. He was no longer cold. Not physically, but mentally.

A coldness that has nowhere to hide, a coldness that drives people mad.

Guderian recalled a word.

"At the end of its strength."

He had learned the word in military school, but never thought it would apply to him.

His forces were the most powerful armored forces in Europe, fighting from Poland to France, from France to the Balkans, and from the Balkans to the Soviet Union, and never lost.

But now he had a premonition that the German army would collapse, disintegrating rapidly from the inside out. This premonition plunged him into a state of madness. He dared not imagine what the consequences would be if the war were lost. For the first time, he wavered, and he was certain that he was not the only one who felt this way; the German officers all felt the same way.

He wanted to go to each armored division and ask the division commanders the same question: "Can we still fight? What are your thoughts? Speak up, should we retreat temporarily?"

Although this might shake morale and make other countries think that the German army is not so great, retreat is indeed the best option at present.