The Beginning of the Defeat

Chapter 106 The Beginning of the Defeat

December 6, 1941, East Prussia, Rastenburg, Wolf's Lair.

Hitler stood at the table, his hands resting on the edge, looking at the huge map of the Eastern Front.

His finger moved across the map, starting from Moscow and slowly moving westward. It passed Mozhaisk, Vyazma, and Smolensk.

Keitel stood behind him, holding a thick report. He had been standing there for a long time, waiting for the Führer to finish looking at the map. His legs were a little sore, but he dared not move. Yodl stood beside Keitel, also holding a report.

The two people looked at each other.

"Guderian's telegram." Hitler did not turn around.

Keitel stepped forward and placed a telegram on the corner of the table. Hitler turned around, picked up the telegram, and held it up to the light to read it.

The telegram was short, containing only a few lines: the troops were out of fuel, suffering severe frostbite casualties, and could no longer hold their ground; they requested to withdraw to the Istra front to reorganize the defense.

Hitler read the telegram once, then again. He tapped his fingers on the edge of the paper, crumpling it and curling the edges.

He threw the telegram on the table, stood there, looking at the map, his gaze fixed on Istra's location.

It was a small town, less than forty kilometers west of Moscow, with a river on its outskirts and a bridge over it.

"Istra," he murmured the name, as if talking to himself, "retreat to Istra, then retreat? To Mozhaisk? To Vyazma? To Smolensk? Where will this retreat end?"

Keitel did not speak.

Hitler walked back to the table.

"How many tanks does the 10th Armored Division have?" he asked.

Keitel opened his notebook. "As of December 4th, there are still forty-one vehicles left, half of which are low on fuel and can only travel a maximum of thirty kilometers."

Half fuel was insufficient, and the range was thirty kilometers. Hitler repeated these two figures to himself. Forty-one tanks could only travel thirty kilometers. Istra was less than forty kilometers west of Moscow; from his current position to Istra, even forty-one tanks with full fuel wouldn't be enough for a single trip.

He stubbed out his cigarette, stood up, and walked to the map.

"What did Bock say?" he asked.

Yodl opened his notebook. "Field Marshal Bock requested a retreat. He said the troops could not hold out any longer; the number of frostbite victims was greater than the combat casualties, and if they did not retreat, his army group would collapse."

Hitler turned to look at Jodl.

"Bock also said that the troops needed winter clothing. He started urging for winter clothing in November, and after a month, the winter clothing was still in Poland and still couldn't be delivered to the front lines."

Jodl lowered his head, looking at his notebook. "Transportation problems. The railway capacity is insufficient. We use our trains within Poland, but to cross the border we have to switch to Soviet broad-gauge trains. Switching takes time, loading takes time, and unloading takes time. Winter is coming, and the roads are even more difficult to travel. Trucks get stuck in the snow and can't get out, causing a traffic jam. By the time the trucks in front are towed out, or the supplies are transferred to another truck, the winter clothing is already soaked and ruined by the time it reaches the front."

Hitler, listen.

"Send a telegram to Bock," he said. "No retreat. Defend the position. Hold every position. Any lost positions must be retaken immediately. This is the order."

Yodl wrote it down in his notebook, and Keitel did the same; their pens scratched across the paper at the same time.

Hitler walked out of the conference room and down the corridor toward his room. The corridor was long, dimly lit, and the concrete floor echoed as he walked.

The guards standing on either side of the corridor stood at attention and saluted when they saw him approaching. He didn't look at them, but kept walking until he reached his room, opened the door, went inside, and closed it.

He stood by the window, looking out at the forest. Snow drifted down from the greyish-white sky, landing on the ground, on the trees, on the barbed wire. The pine branches were bent under the weight of the snow, some broken and drooping to the ground. He looked at it for a long time, thinking of Napoleon.

In 1812, Napoleon did the same. He led his army towards Moscow, but when he arrived, Moscow was empty; the Russians had fled. Napoleon waited a long time, but the Tsar did not come to surrender. Winter came, and Napoleon withdrew. The Russians pursued, the French army collapsed, Napoleon escaped, and his army was gone.

He thought he was better than Napoleon. He had tanks, airplanes, and radio. Napoleon didn't have any of those things, and he thought he could win.

He turned around, walked back to the table, and sat down.

The phone on the table rang, and he answered it.

"Your Majesty, it is I."

He recognized the voice; it was Speer, his Minister of Armaments, in charge of weapons production.

"What is it?"

"Ammunition consumption on the Eastern Front has exceeded our expectations, especially anti-tank shells and mortar shells. Stockpiles have fallen below the warning line. If the fighting on the Eastern Front continues at the current intensity, our ammunition will only last for another month, after which our artillery will have to be shut down."

Hitler held the microphone but did not speak.

"And another thing," Speer continued, "is the oil problem. Oil production in Romania is declining, and Soviet bombers have been bombing Ploiești, affecting refineries as well. If the Soviets continue bombing, our oil reserves..."

It will run out before next spring.

Hitler hung up the phone.

December 8, 1941, Wolf's Lair, Führer Military Conference.

The conference room was full of people.

Keitel, Yodl, Halder, Brauchitsch, and several generals who had returned from the Eastern Front.

Halder was the first to stand up. As the Chief of the Army General Staff, responsible for overall command of the Eastern Front, he walked to the map, picked up his pointer, and pointed to the area west of Moscow.

"At dawn on December 6, the Soviet army launched a counter-offensive in the western suburbs of Moscow. It deployed approximately thirty divisions, including three infantry divisions and one tank brigade transferred from the Far East. The offensive was directed in three directions: Klin to the north, Istra in the middle, and Tula to the south. By this day, our lines have been breached in several places. The 2nd Panzer Division was forced to withdraw from Klin, the 10th Panzer Division is retreating towards Istra, and the left flank of the 4th Panzer Army has been encircled by the Soviet army."

He put down his pointer, turned around, and looked at Hitler.

"Your Excellency, we need to make a decision: either hold out or retreat. Holding out requires reinforcements, but we have none left. Retreating requires orders, and those orders must be given by you."

Hitler sat at the head of the long table, his hands resting on the surface, fingers interlaced. He looked at Halder for a long time.

"Hold your ground," he said. "No retreat is allowed. Every position must be held, and any lost positions must be retaken immediately."

"This is an order."

Brauchitsch raised his hand. He was the Army Commander-in-Chief, Halder's superior.

"Sir, the troops can't hold on any longer. We're out of fuel, ammunition, and winter clothing. Soldiers are lying in trenches in minus twenty degrees Celsius wearing only thermal underwear. There are more frostbite cases than wounded soldiers. Our defenses are riddled with gaps that can't be patched."

Hitler looked at Brauchitsch. The anger in his eyes wasn't the kind that subsided, it was the kind that burst forth.

"So you just let them get away?"

Brauchitsch lowered his head. "Your Excellency, this is not a retreat, it's a withdrawal. An organized withdrawal. Alternating cover, resisting step by step. Retreating to the rear lines to reorganize the defenses."

"Where is the rear defensive line?" Hitler stood up and walked to the map. "Here?" His finger landed west of Moscow. "Or here?" The finger moved west, landing on Mozhaisk. "Or here?" It continued west, landing on Vyazma.

"You're going to retreat from Moscow to Mozhaisk, from Mozhaisk to Vyazma, from Vyazma to Smolensk. Where will you end up? In Poland? In Germany?"

No one speaks.

Hitler turned around and looked at the generals.

He looked at Brauchitsch, at Halder, and at everyone present.

"Our target is Moscow, not Istra, not Mozhaisk, not Vyazma. None of those matter. Moscow is less than 100 kilometers away. Even without tanks, we can run there and plant our flag on the Kremlin's spire."

He walked back to the table and sat down.

"Send messages to the front lines and do not retreat."

After the meeting, all the generals left. Only Hitler remained in the conference room.

An hour earlier, at the start of the meeting, he was still standing there talking about the significance of Moscow, the symbol of the Soviet Union, and he gave the order not to retreat.

The words came out smoothly, and they went through his mind clearly. But he knew in his heart that the orders would not be carried out.

December 10, 1941, Wolf's Lair, the Führer's office.

Hitler sat at the table, with a long casualty report spread out in front of him.

"Has Haldane arrived yet?" he asked.

Keitel stood in the doorway. "Outside the door."

"Let him in."

Halder walked in.

"The situation in Moscow," Hitler said.

Halder pulled a document from his briefcase and opened it. "The Soviet offensive continues. They have advanced to a position sixty to eighty kilometers west of Moscow. The 2nd Panzer Division retreated to Klin, and the 10th Panzer Division retreated to Istra."

The defensive line is not yet stable.

How many tanks does the 2nd Armored Division have left?

Halder glanced at the document. "Forty-one cars."

"Where's the fuel?"

"Barely enough to run 30 kilometers."

"What about the 10th Armored Division?"

"Seventeen vehicles. The fuel is only enough to travel twenty kilometers."

"What about the 4th Armored Army?"

"The situation is worse. The tanks are out of fuel, and the infantry can't move anymore. Part of the left flank has been surrounded by the Soviets and is trying to break out."

Hitler tapped his finger on the map. "Where's Bock?"

"Marshal Bock requested a retreat to Mozhaisk to spend the winter there."

Hitler was silent for a few seconds. He looked at the vast area west of Moscow on the map. Mozhaisk was a little over a hundred kilometers west of Moscow. Retreating to Mozhaisk would mean handing over all the gains of November. From November to December, a whole month of fighting, so many deaths, so much ammunition used, so much oil burned, and finally back to square one.

"Tell him not to retreat," Hitler said. "Hold fast to Istra."

Halder lowered his head.

"Your Führer, Istra has been breached. The Soviet army captured Istra yesterday. The 10th Panzer Division is retreating towards Mozhaisk."

"Bock is sick," Halder said. "His stomach ailment has flared up, and he's in so much pain he can't stand up. He's asked to take a leave of absence to recuperate."

Hitler did not turn around. "Accurate."

Halder jotted it down in his notebook. "Who will take over?"

Kluge.

Halder nodded. The Führer never judged people by who could win battles, but by who was obedient.

After Halder left, Hitler sat alone in his office, thinking of Bock, the sixty-year-old Field Marshal, who was suffering from stomach problems and was in so much pain that he couldn't stand up.

Hitler took a telegram from his drawer and read it. It was from Guderian.

Request to withdraw.

According to Hitler's plan, the German army would regroup and launch another offensive. The Soviet army's task was to strengthen Moscow's defenses and wait for spring.

Loran was in an awkward situation. He was a time traveler who wanted to use his abilities to change something, but he couldn't do anything.

Stalin knew of his existence, Zhukov knew, Kolokoltsev knew, and the soldiers crouching in the trenches on the front lines didn't know who he was, but they knew that a Frenchman was helping them figure out how to take down tanks.

He remembered the faces of those soldiers: the men who chiseled through the walls in Mozhaisk, the men who dug foxholes in the west of the city, and the men who lay in the snow waiting for the tanks to come.

They didn't know his name, had never seen him, and had never heard his voice. But he knew their names: Kolokoltsev, Sergei, and Andrei. Did he save them? He didn't know. Maybe he saved some, maybe none. Maybe what he wrote on paper was used on the front lines, destroying tanks and saving lives.

Perhaps those who die less will one day die elsewhere. It could be today, tomorrow, or the day after. War doesn't end with a few pages written by one person; there are deep political relationships behind it all.

He recalled a quote from Zhukov.

"What's in the book is wrong."

Those wrong ideas have been taught in military academies for many years, written into textbooks, and ingrained in the minds of officers. Their minds have been corrupted and need to be corrected.

He turned around, walked back to the table, and sat down. He opened the drawer, took out the half-written tactics manual, flipped to a blank page, picked up a pen, and wrote a few lines.

He wrote about how foxholes were dug, the principles of anti-tank gun dispersion, and the German army's offensive habits.

He wrote too little. A few dozen pages. A few thousand words. From North Africa to Moscow, from the desert to the permafrost, from fighting tanks to fighting infantry. He thought he had a lot to write about, but when he sat down, he realized it was only a few pages. It wasn't that he learned little from fighting; it was that he knew little. What he learned in North Africa, used in Mozhaisk, and improved in the west of the city—it was all the same few techniques over and over again.

Attacking from the flanks, using foxholes, ambushing in the swamps—these tactics were employed for a month, and Moscow was successfully defended. The machinery was sophisticated, but the principles were simple.

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