Medals

Chapter 107 Medals

December 15, 1941, Mozhaisk Highway, west of Moscow.

Kolokolitsev squatted by the roadside, his eyes filled with mixed emotions.

That's Mozhaisk. He withdrew from here a month ago. Now he's fighting back.

"Captain." Sergei stood behind him, holding a bowl of hot soup. The soup was grayish, with a few rotten vegetable leaves in it. Kolokolitsev took it and drank a sip.

"How much further?" Sergei asked.

Five kilometers.

The two men squatted by the roadside, chewing on dry rations and looking west.

Kolokoltsev's battalion had only sixty-odd men left. They started the counter-offensive with eighty-three men, but after ten days of pursuit, they lost another dozen or so.

"Let's go." Kolokoltsev stood up.

They continued westward, no one spoke, only the crunching sound of their boots on the snow.

After walking for about an hour, a field of ruins appeared ahead. Not just one building, but a whole area. Kolokoltsev stopped, stood there, and looked at the ruins.

Kolokoltsev walked into the ruins, stepping on broken bricks and stones, and went up to the second floor. The corridor was dark, and the holes in the walls were still there.

Captain.

Sergei stood at the top of the stairs. "The Germans have withdrawn. They've retreated westward. They left no rearguard."

Kolokolitsev stood up, dusted off his knees, and went downstairs.

He walked west along the street. After about ten minutes, he reached the western edge of the city. That used to be his position; now the trenches were filled with snow, the observation holes had collapsed, and the machine gun nests were scattered.

Several bodies lay frozen stiff in the snow, dressed in German overcoats, face down. No one came to collect them.

He turned around and walked back into the city.

"Sergei."

"exist."

"Take a headcount, find a building where we can stay, we won't chase anyone tonight, let's rest."

Sergei nodded and ran down the street. Kolokoltsev stood in the street and took the notebook out of his pocket.

When the counterattack began on December 5th, there were 83 people. By December 6th, there were 79 left. By December 7th, there were 76, and by December 8th, there were 73. A few fewer each day, but not a single day was missing.

"Captain," Sergei ran back, "there's a building to the east, and you can live on the second floor."

Kolokolitsev nodded.

"Have each platoon take inventory of their ammunition. How many grenades, bullets, and anti-tank shells are left? Report back."

Sergei ran out.

Kolokolitsev stood at the table, analyzing the map.

Sergei returned shortly afterward.

"Captain, each man has two or three grenades left, but less than a full magazine of bullets. We've run out of anti-tank shells."

Kolokolitsev nodded. "Let the platoons rest, and they'll go to the regimental headquarters to collect their ammunition tomorrow."

Sergei saluted, then turned and left.

Kolokoltsev was alone in the room when Sergei pushed the door open and came in.

"Captain, all platoons are settled. Two sentry posts are on duty tonight, three men in each post, rotating every two hours."

Kolokolitsev nodded. "You go and rest too."

After Sergei left, he let out a long sigh, his brow furrowed.

He knew that his soldiers would dwindle with each battle, and he thought he could accept it, but now he realized he couldn't.

Each person is a vibrant life.

He opened his eyes. Dawn was breaking outside the window, and a dark red light stretched across the eastern horizon, like a gaping wound.

He stood up and walked to the window, watching the wound slowly grow larger and brighter.

The war is coming to a temporary end, and we are about to enter a period of rest and recuperation.

He pushed open the door and went inside. The corridor was dark, with faded carpet on the floor and maps hanging on the walls. He walked to the end of the corridor and pushed open a door.

The commander was sitting at the table, eating breakfast. Breakfast consisted of a bowl of hot soup and two slices of black bread with a thin layer of butter on top. Seeing Kolokoltsev enter, the commander put down his spoon.

"Sit down." The commander gestured to the chair opposite him, and Kolokoltsev sat down.

"How many men are left in your battalion?" the regimental commander asked.

"More than sixty."

"Where's the ammunition?"

"Each person has two or three grenades left, less than a basic quantity, and the anti-tank shells are all used up."

The regimental commander was silent for a few seconds. He stood up, walked to the corner, took a wooden crate from a cabinet, placed it on the table, and opened it. Inside were bullets and grenades. He pushed the crate in front of Kolokoltsev.

"Take these for now. Another batch will arrive tomorrow."

Kolokolitsev nodded.

The regimental commander looked at him.

"Your battalion is fighting a tough battle."

"fine."

The group leader didn't ask any more questions. He sat back down and continued drinking his soup.

Kolokolitsev stood up, picked up the wooden crate, and walked out of the room. The corridor was dark, and he walked slowly; the crate was heavy, and his fingers ached from the cold. He went down the stairs, stood on the street, looked around, and, finding no help, carried the crate towards the camp. After about twenty minutes, he reached the bottom of the stairs, put the crate down, and caught his breath.

He crouched down and opened the box. Inside were rows of gleaming yellow bullets, neatly stacked. He reached out and touched them; the bullets were cold, and the copper casings were smooth to the touch. He closed the box, picked it up, and carried it upstairs. He placed the box in the corner of the room, turned around, and walked out.

He walked down the corridor to the very end and pushed open a door. It was a small room that might have been used for living in the past, with hay on the floor and several soldiers lying on it.

"Captain," someone called out.

Kolokoltsev nodded. "The ammunition has been received. Each person will receive two extra magazines, and each person will receive two more grenades."

He walked out of the room. Sergei was standing in the hallway. "Captain, your soup."

Kolokolitsev took it.

Loran arrived in Mozhaisk on the afternoon of December 16th.

Zhukov sent someone to fetch him, saying something like, "Go and take a look."

He didn't say what he was looking at, nor how long it would take; he only said, "You'll know when we get there."

The driver was still the same round-faced young man, and the car was a Jeep with a canvas top and no doors.

The drive took about three hours.

The car stopped in the east of Mozhaisk. Loran jumped out and stood in the street.

On the street, Sergei stood there, holding a bowl of soup. He saw Loran pause for a moment.

"You've arrived."

Loran nodded.

"The captain is in the west of the city," Sergei said, pointing to the west.

Loran walked west along the street. After about half an hour, he reached the western edge of the city. Kolokoltsev crouched behind a broken wall, looking west through his binoculars. He heard footsteps, put down the binoculars, and turned around.

"You've come," Kolokoltsev said.

"They're here."

Kolokoltsev stood up, brushed the snow off his knees, and smiled as if he were seeing an old friend.

"Look," he said, handing the binoculars to Loran.

"The German troops have already fled," Kolokoltsev said. "They've been on the run for several days."

Lorraine returned the telescope to him.

"What about you? Are you still leaving?" Kolokoltsev asked.

"I don't know," Loran said.

Kolokolitsev nodded, broke off half of his dry rations, and handed it to Loran.

"That thing you wrote," Kolokoltsev said, "the commander gave it to me, and I did as I was told, and it worked."

"As long as it works."

Kolokolitsev swallowed his dry rations. "You've written a lot of things I didn't know before, things that aren't in the books."

"What's in the book isn't necessarily true."

Kolokolitsev glanced at him. "Is something wrong in the book?"

"Some of them are incorrect."

Kolokoltsev did not ask what was wrong.

"Let's go. It's getting dark."

They walked east along the street.

"It's cold here at night."

He pointed to the building next door, which was grayish-white, three stories high, with dark, empty windows.

Loran nodded, then sighed deeply.

This is the same room where I first met Andrei and Ivankov; perhaps they are both dead by now. War is always like this; it sacrifices those with noble qualities.

He lay on the bed resting, and after an unknown amount of time, the door opened.

"Still alive?" Sergei stood in the doorway, holding a bowl of soup.

"Alive." Loran sat up.

Sergei handed him the bowl.

"We're going to collect ammunition tomorrow, are you coming?"

"go."

Loran spent two days in Mozhaisk. On the first day, he went to the regimental headquarters to collect ammunition, and on the second day, he inspected the positions in the city, with Kolokoltsev taking him around.

"Look."

Kolokolitsev pointed to a pool of blood on the trench wall. The blood had dried, turned dark brown, and was embedded in the cracks of the wooden planks, impossible to wipe away.

"Your soldiers?" Loran asked.

"No, he was German. He jumped into the trench and was shot by our soldiers. He lay there bleeding profusely and died before they carried him away."

Loran did not speak.

"Let's go," Kolokoltsev said.

They walked along the trenches to the western edge of the city.

"Should we continue?" Loran asked.

"We're not going to chase them anymore. We'll wait here."

"What are you waiting for?"

"Wait for them to come back."

Lorraine looked at him.

"They will come back. Not now, but later. They will fight again later."

"How much longer will the fight last?"

Kolokolitsev thought for a moment. "I don't know, maybe a year, maybe two years, maybe longer."

He put the cigarette in his mouth, and smoke billowed out of his nostrils.

Loran did not speak.

Kolokolitsev threw the cigarette butt on the ground and crushed it out with his boot.

"You should leave. This is not a place for you."

Lorraine looked at him. "I'm leaving tomorrow."

Kolokolitsev nodded, turned around, and walked along the trench.

Lorraine gave him some final words of advice.

"No need to rush, take good care of yourself."

He spoke very seriously, and Kolokoltsev gave him a deep look before nodding solemnly.

Loran didn't know if he understood.

December 20, 1941, Moscow, Kremlin.

When Loran received the notification at the embassy, ​​he was writing a new chapter in the tactics manual. Karl knocked and entered, holding a letter in a white envelope, without a heading or signature. He placed the envelope on the table and stepped back.

"Sent from the Kremlin."

Loran put down his pen and opened the envelope. Inside was a white card with a line of text written on it in Russian.

"Please go to the Kremlin at 3 p.m. today for a meeting with Comrade Stalin."

The card was unsigned, with only a large red star on it.

He didn't know why Stalin had called him; perhaps it was to ask about the situation at the front, perhaps about the tactics manual, or perhaps it was to say goodbye.

He stayed here for almost half a year, from autumn to winter. Now Moscow has been defended, and the war is temporarily away from the city.

He put on his coat and went out of the room.

Karl stood in the doorway, holding a cup of tea.

"Are you going out again?"

"What brings you to the Kremlin?"

Carl shook his head.

"No, I just have a feeling that something bad is about to happen."

Lorraine smiled helplessly. He didn't know when Karl had become so sensitive. He was a Frenchman, how could the Soviet Union allow him to get into trouble here?

Loran walked west along the main street. There weren't many people on the street, but there were more than a month ago. The shops were open, and there were queues in front of the bakeries, but the queues weren't as long as before.

Several children were playing in the snow in the park, running around and laughing. An old woman sat on a bench, basking in the sun, her eyes half-closed, a piece of black bread clutched in her hand.

He walked for about twenty minutes and arrived at the Kremlin gate. The guards looked at his pass, saluted, and stepped aside to let him in. He passed through the archway and into the courtyard.

Several black cars were parked in the yard, their windows frosted over. A few men in military uniforms stood on the steps, talking quietly. When they saw him, one of them nodded.

He entered the three-story building and went up the stairs to the second floor. The corridor was wide, with a deep red carpet on the floor and portraits of Marx and Engels hanging on the walls. He walked to the end of the corridor and stopped in front of an oak door.

Poskrebyshev stood in the doorway, holding a notebook. He saw Loran and nodded.

"Comrade Stalin is waiting for you inside."

He pushed open the door and stepped aside.

Loran went inside.

Stalin sat behind his desk with a map spread out in front of him.

He saw Lorraine, put down the red pencil in his hand, and pointed to the chair opposite him.

"sit."

Loran sat down.

Stalin took a drag of his cigarette. "Are you still writing?"

Loran knew what he was asking about: the tactics manual, which he had newly compiled based on experience. As for whether it was standardized, someone else would adjust it; he only needed to set the framework.

"Writing."

"Write what?"

"How to dig foxholes, how to position anti-tank guns, how to fight in urban warfare—I won't write grand theories, I'll just write how to do it."

Stalin nodded.

"You know, when Moscow was in the most danger, some people suggested that I withdraw," he said. "They said that Stalin should withdraw to Kuibyshev and take command there, and that Moscow couldn't be held, but if I left, morale would collapse."

"You didn't leave either; you stayed, crouching in the trench, listening to the sound of shells hitting the ground with the Soviet soldiers. You wrote..."

"Those things saved the lives of Soviet soldiers; the lives of Soviet soldiers were the lives of the Soviet Union."

He walked back to the table, took a red wooden box from the drawer, placed it on the table, and pushed it in front of Loran.

"This is the highest honor in the Soviet Union, the Order of the Red Banner. It's not just for you as an individual, but for your courage, your perseverance, and what you've done for Soviet soldiers."

Loran looked at the red wooden box.

"Take it," Stalin said.

Loran opened the wooden box; inside was a medal. It was made of bronze, silver, with a red enamel five-pointed star on it, and a hammer and sickle in the center of the star.

"Where are you going next?" Stalin asked.

Loran thought for a moment.

"Maybe I'll go back to England."

Stalin looked at him. "Back to England? Do you even have a home in England?"

"no."

Do you have a home in France?

"No, not at all."

Stalin was silent for a few seconds. "Then where did you come from?"

Loran also remained silent for a few seconds.

There is a place. But I can't go back.

He looked at Loran.

"I want you to stay."

Lorraine looked at him. "Comrade Stalin, I am French. France has De Gaulle, and he is in London."

"I know. I'll go and talk to de Gaulle."

Loran remained silent for a few seconds.

"Wherever we are, we are here to serve the people of the world."

Stalin was shocked; he never expected to hear those words from a Westerner.

People all yearn for peace; it's the same all over the world.

Lorraine stood up, ready to leave.

"Loran," Starling called out to him.

Lorraine turned around.

"Keep writing what you're writing, and show it to me when you're done."

Loran nodded, saluted, and turned to leave.

The corridor was quiet. Poskrebyshev stood in the doorway, notebook in hand, with an appreciative look on his face.

Loran walked past him, down the stairs, and out of the building. She stood on the steps and took a deep breath.

With the end of the Soviet Patriotic War and the devastation of the German army, he thought the war was about to end.