Struggling to Hold On

Chapter 82 Struggling to Hold On

Zhukov had not slept for forty-eight hours.

The lights in the command post were always on. The phone kept ringing, like a relentless call, from the front lines, from the General Staff, from the Kremlin. Every call brought bad news. He'd had enough bad news, but he couldn't ignore it. He was the army group commander; bad news was the first and last to reach him.

The command post was located in a village 20 kilometers east of Mozhaisk. The village was small, with a dozen or so wooden houses crammed together. The largest wooden house had been requisitioned and turned into a operations room. The operations room was small, with a long table taking up most of it, and maps pinned to the walls, covered with markings in red and blue pencils. Red represented their own forces, and blue represented the enemy.

Zhukov sat at one end of the long table, a cup of tea that had gone cold in front of him. He didn't drink it. His secretary had brought it an hour earlier, and he'd forgotten to drink it. A cigarette was between his fingers, burned down to the filter, but he hadn't taken a puff. He stared at the map, at the blue arrows, his mind calculating an endless mathematical problem, constantly refuting the enemy's tactics, making a choice that would minimize losses. He was helpless; this was the predicament of the defender. Zhukov preferred a direct attack, but what would the consequences be?

A light rain was falling outside. It wasn't heavy, just a fine, dense drizzle, pattering against the roof of the wooden house. The sound reminded him of Smolensk. Two months earlier, he had listened to the same rain from his command post in Smolensk, waiting for news from the front. Back then, the Germans had just advanced, and his troops were still on the Belarusian border, retreating again and again, finally stopping at Smolensk after a 300-kilometer retreat. He thought he could hold out. He organized a counterattack, committing five armies, hundreds of tanks, and thousands of artillery pieces. The counterattack lasted ten days; his troops had lost more than half their strength, and the Germans had still crossed the Dnieper River.

He stubbed out his cigarette and pulled another one from the pack. The pack was empty. He crumpled the empty pack, threw it on the table, took a new pack from the drawer, tore it open, pulled out a cigarette, put it in his mouth, and struck a match.

The door opened. His chief of staff, Sokolovsky, walked in, holding a telegram. Sokolovsky was in his fifties, with gray hair and deep wrinkles on his face. His left leg ached a little when he walked; it was an old injury. He placed the telegram on the table.

Zhukov picked up the telegram and glanced at it. The telegram was from the Western Front headquarters and contained only one line: "A German armored group has been spotted 30 kilometers east of Smolensk. Its designation is unknown, but its size is approximately two armored divisions."

He put down the telegram and rubbed his eyes.

"What did Konev say?" he asked.

Sokolovsky opened his notebook. "General Konev requested reinforcements. He said his troops were decimated, with three army groups totaling less than 50,000 men. No tanks, no artillery, no ammunition. If the Germans attack now, he won't last three days."

Zhukov was silent for a few seconds. He stood up, walked to the map, and pointed to the location of Smolensk. Thirty kilometers east of Smolensk was Yelnya. Yelnya was a small town, but its location was crucial. It was a railway hub leading to Moscow. If the Germans captured Yelnya, they could advance along the railway line directly to Vyazma, and from Vyazma to Moscow, the entire route was flat.

"What other reserves do we have?" he asked.

Sokolovsky flipped through his notebook. "The 29th Army is being transferred from the Urals; it will take another week to arrive."

The 31st Army is assembling in Kalinin, but their equipment has not yet arrived. Several tank brigades are also undergoing training in the suburbs of Moscow and will not be ready for combat for at least three days.

"Three days," Zhukov repeated the number.

Three days. Yelnya might fall, Vyazma might fall, the gates of Moscow might be opened. But he had no other choice. His troops were all gone, new troops were on their way, and he could only try to fill the gap with what he had left.

"Tell Konev to hold on for three more days," Zhukov said. "Reinforcements will arrive in three days. Until then, do not retreat a single step."

Sokolovsky wrote it down in his notebook and turned to leave.

"And another thing," Zhukov called after him, "transfer the 32nd Infantry Division to the Yelnya direction. They just came from the Far East and haven't had a chance to rest, but they can't wait any longer."

Sokolovsky hesitated for a moment. "General, the 32nd Division has just arrived in Moscow. The soldiers have been on the train for six days and are exhausted. Their equipment is also incomplete; the anti-tank guns are still on their way."

"We're not waiting any longer," Zhukov said. "Let them go. Wherever they end up. As fast as they can."

Sokolovsky nodded and went outside.

Zhukov stood alone in front of the map. He stared at the point marked Yelnya for a long time. He knew that even if the 32nd Division went there, it wouldn't hold out for long. The troops from the Far East were poorly equipped, poorly trained, and had never seen German tanks before. Sending them to hold off the 4th...

Sending armored groups to their deaths was tantamount to sending them to their deaths. But he had no other troops to send. He could only fill in the gaps with his men one by one, until reinforcements arrived, until winter came, until the Germans themselves could not hold out.

The rain grew heavier. The pattering sound turned into a pattering sound, hitting the windows and the roof. The windows had wooden frames, and a crack in the glass was taped shut. Rainwater seeped in through the crack, running down the windowsill and dripping onto the floor, forming a small puddle. Zhukov looked at the puddle and thought of Leningrad. His daughter was there, only ten years old. He hadn't received a letter from home for two months. He knew Leningrad was under siege, and food was scarce; they only had a few hundred grams of bread a day. He didn't know how much longer his wife and daughter could hold on; everything was slowly eroding his spirit.

He walked back to the table, sat down, picked up the now-cold tea, and took a sip. The tea was bitter and astringent. He put the cup down, took a piece of paper from the drawer, spread it on the table, and picked up a pencil. He needed to write a report for Stalin, telling him the truth about the front lines. But he didn't know what to write.

To write "We can't hold on any longer"? Stalin wouldn't accept that. To write "We can hold on"? That would be a lie.

He put down his pencil, stood up, and walked to the window. In the rain outside, several soldiers were unloading ammunition boxes from a truck. Their movements were slow, because they were exhausted. Their uniforms were soaked through, clinging to their bodies and revealing their thin silhouettes.

One person couldn't move it, so two people lifted it together, taking two steps and then resting. No one spoke, only the sound of rain hitting the canvas.

Zhukov turned around, walked back to the table, and sat down. He picked up a pencil and wrote a few lines on the paper. He wrote slowly, each word heavily, as if he wanted to pierce the paper with the pencil. After he finished writing, he folded the paper, put it in an envelope, sealed it, and wrote "To Comrade Stalin."

He stood up, walked to the door, and pushed it open. Rain drifted in, hitting his face with a cool touch. He called to a passing messenger and handed him the envelope.

"Send it to the Kremlin. Now."

The messenger saluted, stuffed the envelope into his pocket, and turned to run into the rain.

Zhukov closed the door and walked back to the table.