Retreat

Chapter 105 Retreat

December 5, 1941, Moscow, Kremlin.

At three in the morning, Stalin sat at his desk, a huge battle map spread out in front of him. The red line on the map stretched outwards from the western suburbs of Moscow, and countless arrows pointed westwards.

This was the moment he had been waiting for day and night for a month. A month earlier, German troops were at the gates of the city, and reconnaissance planes flew over Red Square, with pilots able to see the spires of the Kremlin.

Zhukov submitted his counter-offensive plan three days earlier. The plan was written in a thick document, detailing troop deployments, attack routes, and reserve force allocations. Stalin read it three times, making several corrections in red pen, but Zhukov did not object.

He knew that what he was changing wasn't tactics, but politics. He understood tactics better than Stalin, but Stalin understood politics better than him. After the changes were made, Stalin signed them, Zhukov put the documents away, saluted, and turned to leave.

Stalin called out to him. "When?"

"December 5th. Early morning."

"Why choose this day?"

"Because in a few days, the temperature will drop to minus thirty degrees Celsius. Our soldiers can withstand it, but the German soldiers cannot. Whoever attacks first will win. So we must attack first."

Stalin looked at him without saying a word. He took a drag of his cigarette, the smoke slowly dissipating in the lamplight.

In the trenches west of the city, on those frozen, hard positions, the soldiers didn't sleep. They waited for half a month, through the November cold winds, through the last German attack, through every day of frostbite, hunger, and running out of ammunition. They were waiting for this one sentence.

Counterattack.

"Go," Stalin said.

Zhukov saluted, turned and left.

Stalin stood alone by the window. He remembered a month earlier, on the day of the Red Square parade, when it snowed heavily.

He turned around, walked back to the table, and sat down. He took out the counter-offensive plan from the drawer and looked at it again. He stared at the boxes marked with troop numbers and the attack routes outlined in red pen.

His finger landed on the map, on the location of the Kolokoltsev camp, thirty kilometers west of Moscow.

He didn't know who Kolokoltsev was, but he knew his battalion had always been there.

December 5, 4:00 AM, west of Moscow, the position of the 3rd Battalion of the Soviet 5th Army.

Kolokoltsev crouched behind the observation hole, his ears aching from the cold. He covered them with his hands for a while before putting them down again.

He endured for a long time, from the beginning of November to the beginning of December, from the last German attack to their complete ceasefire, from daily shells falling on the position to the occasional one or two shells.

He knew the Germans were also waiting—waiting for winter to pass, for supplies to arrive, and for their feet to recover from frostbite.

The phone rang. He answered it.

"Captain," came the regimental commander's voice on the other end of the phone, "the counter-offensive has begun."

Kolokoltsev held the microphone but did not speak.

"Your mission is to advance westward. Target: the rearguard of the German 10th Panzer Division. They are retreating, running out of fuel, and can't move fast. Chase them down and hold them off. Don't let their engineers blow up the bridge, don't let their artillery set up their guns again, and don't let their infantry have a chance to catch their breath."

"Understood." Kolokoltsev hung up the phone.

He crouched behind the observation hole, looking westward, with trenches behind him and his soldiers crouching in them.

"Comrades," he said, "the order has come: counterattack, advance westward."

No one spoke. The soldiers looked at him, their faces showing a restrained joy.

He turned around and was the first to climb out of the trench.

The snow was deep, above his knees. He walked forward slowly, pulling his legs out of the snow with each step. Behind him, the soldiers followed him out of the trench, one after another, rifles in hand, backs bent, following his footprints westward.

He walked for about twenty minutes, then stopped, squatted down in the snow, and raised his binoculars. Several dark figures appeared on the gray-white snow to the west; they were German trenches, but no one was there.

December 5, 5:00 AM, west of Moscow, the position of the German 10th Panzer Division.

General Stauffen did not sleep. He sat in front of the map at the division headquarters, listening to the distant sound of artillery fire.

He picked up the phone and shook it a few times. "The vanguard reports that Soviet infantry are advancing towards my positions. About a regiment, no tanks."

Stauffen was silent for a few seconds. "No tanks?"

"No, only infantry."

Shih Taufen put down the phone, stood up, and walked to the window. It was dark outside; she couldn't see anything except snow.

He walked back to the table and picked up the phone. "Get the anti-tank guns ready. The infantry can hold them off; without tanks, they can't get through."

o

He put down the phone and sat down. He remembered what Guderian had said during his inspection yesterday. Guderian stood before the map, looking at the unit numbers of the exhausted troops, and remained silent for a long time. Then he said, "We must retreat to a more rear position. Otherwise, we will be surrounded." Stauffen looked at him. He knew he should retreat, but he also knew he couldn't; there were orders not to retreat.

As dawn approached, Shi Daofen stood up and walked to the window. Outside, the eastern horizon glowed with a grayish-white light, and many moving black dots appeared on the snow. Soviet infantry, in skirmish lines, bent over, rifles at their sides, emerged from the snow.

"Bring the reserves up. Hold the line. No retreating."

Kolokoltsev crouched in the snow, looking at the German trenches ahead. There was no barbed wire, no minefield, nothing at all. The Germans didn't have time to set up defenses; they were retreating. The rearguard was providing cover, and once the cover was finished, they ran. Those who couldn't run fast enough were caught up.

He stood up and waved his hand. "Charge!"

The soldiers scrambled to their feet in the snow and ran after him. German machine guns opened fire, bullets sweeping across the snow and kicking up plumes of white smoke. Some fell, but others walked around them and continued running.

Kolokoltsev ran in the lead, getting closer and closer to the German trenches—one hundred meters, fifty meters, thirty meters. His grenade was so frozen he could barely hold it, so he threw it, and it exploded in front of the trench, sending up smoke and snow.

He jumped into the trench, rifle in hand, and swept the water forward. One German soldier fell, another raised his hand, and he stopped just as he was about to fire.

He looked into those grey-blue eyes, eyes filled with weariness.

"Put down your gun," he shouted in broken German.

The soldier looked at the gun, then at him. He threw the gun on the ground and raised his hands.

Kolokolitsev walked past him and continued westward.

December 5, 8:00 AM, western suburbs of Moscow, Soviet 244th Division's counter-offensive launch position.

Govorov stood beside a T-34 tank, watching the soldiers crawl out of the trenches. His troops had been assembled for three days. For three days, they had hidden in the woods, awaiting orders. The soldiers camouflaged the tanks with branches and snow, pushed the artillery to their designated positions, and unloaded ammunition boxes from the trucks.

They didn't light a fire to cook, fearing the smoke would reveal their location.

The order has finally arrived.

"Attack," Govorov said.

The tank engines roared to life, white steam billowing from their exhaust pipes. The T-34s emerged from the woods, lined up in a row, their guns pointing west. The tracks chugged across the snow with a dull thud. Infantry followed behind the tanks, bent over, rifles at their sides, running westward along the tracks left by the tanks.

Govorov got into the command vehicle, the driver started the engine, and the vehicle headed west. The road was terrible, riddled with craters and gravel.

He gripped the handrail, his body swaying with the car's movement.

He recalled a month ago. Back then, he led his troops from the Far East, a six-day train journey. Upon arrival, without rest, they went straight to the battlefield.

He looked away, leaned back in his seat, and closed his eyes.

December 5, 2 PM, west of Moscow, headquarters of the German 10th Panzer Division.

Stauffen stood before the map, watching the blue and red arrows constantly changing. His defenses had been breached. Soviet infantry attacked simultaneously from three directions; there were no tanks, only infantry.

There were too many infantrymen, too many for him to handle. His soldiers hadn't had a full night's sleep in days. There were more frostbite cases than combat casualties. There weren't enough anti-tank ammunition, and machine guns kept jamming and wouldn't be fixed. Even after being fixed, they would jam again.

"General," the adjutant said softly from behind him, "It's a phone call from General Guderian."

Shih Taufen took the microphone.

"Stawfield, can you hold your position?"

Staufen was silent for a few seconds. "We can't hold on."

There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the phone. "Then retreat, retreat westward, retreat to Istra, and reorganize the defensive line there."

Staufen held the microphone, not putting it down. "General, there are orders from above: no retreat is permitted, it's the Führer's order."

"The Führer's order is to attack. Should we still attack now? We can't even defend anymore. Retreat, and I'll take responsibility," came Guderian's pained voice.

The phone call ended. Shi Taofen put down the receiver. He stood there, looking out the window at the gray sky.

"Pass on my orders. Each battalion will provide alternating cover and retreat westward. The engineers will cover the rear and destroy all bridges."

He put on his coat and stepped out of the cabin. A half-track command vehicle was parked outside, its engine already warmed up. The driver shifted to low gear and slowly drove forward. He didn't know where else he could go. Istra? Further west? Volkolamsk? Further west? He dared not think about it.

December 5, evening, western suburbs of Moscow, Soviet 3rd Battalion on the march.

Kolokoltsev was too exhausted to run any further. He squatted by the roadside, took out some dry rations from his pocket, broke off a small piece, and put it in his mouth. The rations were as hard as rocks, making a crunching sound when he chewed them.

Sergei squatted beside him, also chewing dry rations. His face was covered in ash, his lips were chapped, and his fingers were covered in frostbite. He chewed the rations, swallowed them, then grabbed a handful of snow from the ground and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing it along with the rations.

"Captain."

"Um."

"How far have we chased them?"

Kolokolitsev thought for a moment. "About ten kilometers."

"Are the German rearguard still up ahead?"

"They are here, but they can't run anymore."

Sergei nodded and asked no more questions. He stuffed the rations back into his pocket, stood up, and brushed the snow off his knees. "Let's go."

"It's getting dark."

Kolokoltsev stood up and continued westward. The snow was deep, his legs were heavy, and he could barely feel the soles of his feet. He alternated between cold and hot; when it was hot, it felt like walking on burning coals, and when it was cold, it felt like walking in ice water. He knew without looking that his feet were frostbitten.

He can't stop.

Late at night, Moscow, the Kremlin.

史达林坐在桌前，面前摊着几份电报。第一份是朱可夫发来的。内容很短：「德军已开始向西撤退。第5集团军、第31集团军、第244师、第247师、第249师，均已转入进攻。

The pursuit is underway.

The second message came from Shaposhnikov: "The vanguard of the Far Eastern forces has arrived in Moscow and is moving westward."

It is expected to be ready for combat within three days.

The third report came from Beria: "Order is good in Moscow. There are no signs of panic."

Stalin finished reading the three telegrams, stacked them together, and placed them on the corner of the table. He took a cigarette from his pack, put it in his mouth, and struck a match. The light from the match illuminated his face. His face was expressionless, only weary. But there was a light in his eyes.

He took a drag of his cigarette, the smoke swirling in his lungs before exhaling through his nostrils and slowly dissipating under the light.

Early morning, west of Moscow, the German 10th Panzer Division was retreating.

Guderian stood by the roadside, watching the soldiers walk past him.

A young soldier walked past Guderian without seeing him. His overcoat was covered in snow, his hat brim was frosted, and his rifle was slung over his shoulder with the butt on the ground and the muzzle pointing upwards.

Guderian looked at him, wanting to go over, but didn't take that step.

He didn't know what to say. "Hold on a little longer?" But how long? "Reinforcements are coming soon?" Where would they come from? "We can win?" But how?

He turned and looked west. Istra was still dozens of kilometers away; at this pace, his troops would need another two days to march. Two days to cover dozens of kilometers would be a joke in normal times, but not now.

"General," the adjutant ran up, panting, "a telegram from Army Group Headquarters."

Guderian took the telegram. It was from Field Marshal Bock. The message was brief: "The Führer orders no retreat. Immediately switch to defense. Hold every position. Any lost positions must be recaptured immediately."

He looked at those lines of text and took a deep breath.

If we don't retreat, we'll all die here. If we all die, who will hold the position?

He folded the telegram, stuffed it into his pocket, and looked furious.

"General, what should we do?" the adjutant asked.

"Continue the retreat, retreat to Istra."

The adjutant saluted, turned, and ran off. Guderian stood by the roadside, watching the soldiers walk past him. One after another, like a gray-black river flowing westward.

On the morning of December 6th, in the western suburbs of Moscow, the Soviet 3rd Battalion was on the run.

Kolokolitsev chased after him all night.

The trenches were empty, the machine gun emplacements were empty, the command post was empty; some people had thrown away everything they could, leaving only their lives behind.

He crouched down, picked up a military overcoat—a German overcoat, gray and woolen. It was thicker than his own. He took off his own overcoat and put on the German one; it fit him perfectly.

"Captain." Sergei stood beside him, also holding a German overcoat, which he was putting on.

"There aren't many people, and not many spares either. Let the people behind pick them up." Kolokoltsev stood up and continued walking west.

After walking for about an hour, we reached a bridge. The bridge was made of stone, very old, and narrow; the river was frozen. Sandbags were piled up at the bridgehead, and behind them was a machine gun. The machine gun was a German MG-34, with the barrel facing west.

Kolokolitsev crossed the bridge and continued westward in pursuit.

Around noon, he caught up with a German rearguard unit. It was about a company, more than a hundred men, and they were heading west.

"beat."

He fired the first shot. A German soldier fell. Gunfire erupted—machine guns roared, rifles crackled. The Germans dropped to the ground, lying prone in the snow, firing in their direction. Bullets flew overhead, low, and he could hear the sound of them tearing through the air.

Kolokoltsev crouched down, changed a magazine, and watched those figures disappear into the snow.

"Sergei."

"exist."

"Take a headcount."

Sergei walked around the column once and returned. "There are still eighty-three men left."

Kolokoltsev nodded. Of the more than eight hundred men, only eighty-three remain.

"Captain," Sergei said, squatting down beside him, "Will the Germans return?"

Kolokolitsev thought for a while.

"No more."

Evening, British Embassy in Moscow.

Loran stood by the window, looking at the western sky.

A month ago, he stood at this window, listening to the sound of artillery fire coming from the west, shaking the glass. At that time, the German army was less than 30 kilometers away from Moscow, and everyone thought Moscow was doomed.

He turned around, walked back to the table, sat down, took out the letter, and wrote a few lines.

"The Germans have begun their retreat. The Soviets are in pursuit. I stand by the window, looking at the western sky. The flames there aren't from artillery fire, but from burning German equipment. Moscow has held out."

As history had progressed, the German army began to crumble.

He put down his pen, folded the letter, and stuffed it into his suitcase. He stood up, walked to the window, and looked at the dark red sky.