Utter Defeat

Chapter 83 A complete defeat

There is no sun in Yelinia in the morning.

Zhukov stood by the window of the command post, looking at the gray-white sky to the east. The clouds hung low, as if they were about to collapse. The rain had stopped, but the air was still damp, carrying the smell of earth and gunpowder. In the distance came the muffled sound of artillery fire, one beat after another, like someone knocking on a thick wall.

The phone rang. He didn't move. Chief of Staff Sokolovsky answered it, listened for a few seconds, and his expression changed. He put down the receiver and walked behind Zhukov.

"General, a telegram from the 32nd Division. The Germans have broken through the first line of defense. The division commander has been killed in action."

Zhukov didn't turn around. He stared at the gray sky outside the window for a long time.

Who is commanding the 32nd Division now?

"The deputy division commander. But he was also wounded. The troops have been scattered, and we can't contact several regiments."

Zhukov turned and walked to the map. He circled Yelnya's location several times in red. The circles now looked ridiculously small. His finger landed two kilometers west of Yelnya, where the 32nd Division's defensive line lay. A blue arrow had crossed the line and was extending eastward.

"Where is the 29th Army Group?"

Sokolovsky opened his notebook. "The advance troops are still on their way, forty kilometers from Yelinia. They should arrive by tomorrow morning at the earliest."

"Tomorrow morning," Zhukov repeated. He picked up a red pencil and drew a line east of Yelinya. That was the second line of defense. There were no troops guarding it. Only some militia and support personnel, carrying old-fashioned rifles and Molotov cocktails. He knew that line wouldn't hold for long.

"Tell the 32nd Division not to retreat. Even if they are all wiped out, they must hold their ground. Every hour they hold out is a victory."

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

"Also," Zhukov called after him, "report the situation of the 32nd Division to the General Staff. Tell them that Yelinya might not be able to hold out."

Sokolovsky hesitated for a moment. "General, what if the General Staff finds out we can't hold out—"

"I know," Zhukov interrupted him, "but they need to know the truth. The Germans won't wait for us to be ready."

Sokolovsky left. Zhukov stood alone before the map. His finger moved eastward from Yelnya, through Vyazma, through Mozhaisk, and finally stopped at Moscow. Four hundred kilometers. If the Germans broke through Yelnya, they could rush straight to Vyazma along the road. If Vyazma fell, Mozhaisk would be exposed. If Mozhaisk fell, Moscow would have no cover.

He put down his pencil and went to the window. In the yard outside, several soldiers were loading ammunition onto a truck. Ammunition boxes were piled on top of the truck and covered with tarpaulins. A young soldier jumped off the truck, tripped and fell, got up, brushed the mud off his knees, and continued carrying loads.

His face was thin, with high cheekbones and chapped lips. His military uniform was too big, with the sleeves rolled up several times, revealing a section of his thin wrist.

He turned around, walked back to the table, and sat down. He picked up the phone, shook it a few times, and said into the receiver, "Connect to the Leningrad Front."

I waited a long time. There was static on the other end of the line, then the operator's voice: "Leningrad Front, please speak."

"I am Zhukov. I am looking for General Khozin."

He waited a long time. Huo Jin was the chief of staff of the army group, his old comrade-in-arms. The call connected, and Huo Jin's voice was hoarse, as if he hadn't slept in a long time.

"George, is that you?"

"It's me. How's home?"

Huo Jin was silent for a few seconds. "This is bad. The food is almost gone. We only get 300 grams of bread a day. People are already starving to death."

The German artillery fired every single day, without a single day's break.

"Where are my family members?"

"I don't know. I have no news of them. Communication in the city has been cut off."

Zhukov held the microphone but didn't speak. He could hear Khoshin's heavy, tired breathing.

"George, how are things over there?" Hozin asked.

"Oh no. Yelinia is about to fall. I have no soldiers left."

The two remained silent for a long time. The only sound on the phone was static, a hissing sound like wind blowing through withered leaves.

"Take care," Huo Jin said.

"Take care of yourself."

Zhukov put down the microphone. He looked down at his hands. They were trembling. Not from fear, but from exhaustion. He hadn't slept for three days.

The door opened. Sokolovsky walked in, holding a telegram. His face was grim.

"General, Yelinia is lost. The 32nd Division has been completely wiped out."

Zhukov took the telegram and glanced at it. The paper was short, with only a few lines of text. After reading it, he placed the telegram on the table without saying a word.

"The German vanguard is advancing toward Vyazma," Sokolovsky said. "General Konev has requested a retreat."

He said that if they didn't retreat, his troops would be surrounded.

Zhukov stood up and walked to the map. His finger moved eastward from Yelnya, through Vyazma, and through Mozhaisk. Four hundred kilometers. The German tanks were fast, covering dozens of kilometers a day. His infantry were slow, only managing thirty kilometers a day. They couldn't catch up, they couldn't stop them.

"Tell Konev not to retreat," Zhukov said. "Vyazma cannot be lost. If Vyazma is lost, Mozhaisk will be next, and Moscow will be unprotected."

Sokolovsky hesitated for a moment. "But General, Konev only has less than 50,000 men. The Germans have at least two armored divisions, plus infantry divisions. He can't hold out."

"We must hold on, even if we can't," Zhukov said. "Every day we delay is another day. We'll hold on until reinforcements arrive, until winter comes, until the Germans can't hold out any longer."

Sokolovsky said nothing more. He saluted, turned, and left.

Zhukov stood alone before the map. He stared at the blue arrows, the dense swarms of arrows surging in from the west. They resembled locusts, a flood, an unstoppable force. He remembered fighting the Japanese at the Khalkhin Gol River in 1939. Back then, he had looked at the map in the same way, at the enemy arrows. But then he had soldiers, tanks, and artillery. Now he had nothing. His soldiers were all gone, his tanks were all gone, his artillery was all gone. He could only use his empty shell to block the German steel.

He walked back to the table, sat down, and took a pack of cigarettes from the drawer. The pack was new, just opened. He took one out, put it in his mouth, and struck a match. The light from the match illuminated his face. His face was expressionless, only weary.

He took a drag of his cigarette, and the smoke billowed from his nostrils, slowly dissipating under the light.

The next day, Zhukov went to Vyazma.

He was driving west in a jeep along the highway. The road was terrible, riddled with craters and mud. Several bombed trucks lay overturned by the roadside, some still smoking. Soldiers were walking east in twos and threes, some carrying guns, some empty-handed, some helping the wounded. Their faces were ashen, their eyes empty.

Zhukov told the driver to stop the car and called out to a soldier.

"Which part are you from?"

The soldier stopped and looked at him. There was no light in his eyes, only a deep, lifeless look, as if he had been dead for a long time.

"From the 32nd Division."

"Your division has been scattered," Zhukov said. "You are now under my command. Go to Mozhaisk; there's a reception center there. Once you get there, someone will give you guns and food."

The soldier looked at him without saying a word. He turned around and continued walking eastward. His back was thin and hunched, like a tree bent by the wind.

Zhukov stared at that retreating figure for a long time. Then he closed the car door and said to the driver, "Let's go."

They continued westward. The road worsened, with more and more craters. The jeep bounced violently, and Zhukov gripped the handrail, his body swaying with the vehicle. His back ached from an old injury sustained at the Khalkha River. Each jolt felt like a stab to his back.

After driving for about two hours, they arrived at Konev's command post. The post was located in an abandoned barn, half of which had collapsed and was covered with a tarpaulin. Konev stood at the barn door, wearing a dirty military overcoat and his face covered in mud. Upon seeing Zhukov, he saluted, his face grave.

"George, you've come."

"How is the situation?"

Konev shook his head. "It's bad. The German vanguard has reached twenty kilometers west of Vyazma. Their scouts sneaked out of the city last night and exchanged fire with our sentries. I have less than 30,000 men, no tanks, no artillery, no ammunition. If the Germans attack now, I won't last a day."

Zhukov entered the barn. It was dark inside, with only a kerosene lamp hanging on a pillar. Maps were spread on the floor, covered with markings. Several staff officers squatted beside the maps; some were on the phone, some were flipping through documents, and some were dozing off.

Zhukov crouched down and looked at the map. Vyazma's location was circled in red. To the west were densely packed blue arrows. To the east were sparse red defensive lines.

"How do you plan to defend it?" Zhukov asked.

Konev pointed to the map. "I concentrated the remaining troops in the west and south of the city. The north is a swamp, where tanks can't pass, so I only deployed a company there. The east is a highway leading to Mozhaisk, where I deployed a regiment to cover the retreat."

"Retreat." Zhukov repeated the word. "You're retreating?"

Konev looked at him. "Georgei, we can't hold out. If I don't retreat, the remaining 30,000 men will be wiped out too."

"If we're all wiped out, who will defend Mozhaisk? Who will defend Moscow?"

Zhukov was silent for a few seconds. He looked at the sparse red lines and the dense blue arrows on the map. He knew Konev was right. The defenses couldn't be held. But he couldn't order a retreat. Because Stalin wouldn't allow it. Stalin had already given the order: no retreat.

"Hold on for three more days," Zhukov said.

Konev shook his head. "It won't last. One more day at most."

"Two days."

"A day and a half."

Zhukov looked at him; there was no anger or helplessness in his gray eyes, only a deep weariness.

"A day and a half," he said. "After a day and a half, you can leave. But before that, you are not allowed to back down an inch."

Konev nodded.

Zhukov stood up and walked out of the barn. It was almost dark outside. A final ray of light, a dark red, lingered on the western horizon, like a wound nearing its end. In the distance, several men were digging trenches in the fields. Their movements were slow, for they were exhausted. Zhukov watched them, standing there for a long time.

Then he turned around, got into the jeep, and said to the driver, "Back to Mozhaisk."

The car started moving. The road was still terrible, incredibly bumpy. Zhukov leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. In his mind, those blue arrows were still spinning. Vyazma, Mozhaisk, Moscow. They spun one by one, like a millstone.

He thought of the 32nd Division. Twelve thousand men, transferred from the Far East, had traveled six days by train and gone straight to the battlefield without rest. They fought for two days and were completely wiped out. He didn't know the name of the deputy division commander, the names of the regimental commanders, or the names of the soldiers. They simply vanished, like sand scattered by the wind.

He opened his eyes and looked out the window. It was pitch black, and he couldn't see anything. Only the car headlights illuminated a small patch of road ahead, full of potholes and mud.

After driving for about three hours, they arrived at Mozhaisk. Zhukov went into the command post, took off his overcoat, hung it on a hanger, and walked to the map. On the map, Yelnya's location was already covered by a blue arrow. Vyazma's location was still within the red circle, but blue arrows were surging in that direction.

He picked up a red pencil and drew a line west of Mozhaisk. That was the third line of defense. There were no troops guarding it, only some militia and military cadets. He knew that line wouldn't hold for long either. But he had to draw it. Because he couldn't do anything else but draw lines.

He put down his pencil and walked to the window. Outside, the night in Mozhaisk was pitch black; there were no lights, no stars. Occasionally, a few muffled cannon shots could be heard in the distance.

He stood there for a long time.

The next afternoon, Konev called.

"Georgie, the Germans have broken through. A gap has been torn in the southern defenses. My troops are retreating eastward. Vyazma has fallen."

Zhukov held the microphone but did not speak.

"My losses are heavy," Konev continued. "The 19th and 20th Armies are surrounded. They are trying to break out to the east, but German tanks are blocking the way. I don't know how many men will get out."

1

"How many people were surrounded?"

"all."

Zhukov closed his eyes.

"George, are you still there?"

"Here." Zhukov opened his eyes. "Order the surrounded troops to break out to the northeast. It's a swamp there; the German tanks can't get in. Get as many out as you can."

"it is good."

The call ended. Zhukov put down the receiver, looked down at his hands. His hands were trembling. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms; it hurt.

He stood up and walked to the map. Vyazma was lost. Mozhaisk was exposed. The German vanguard was less than 100 kilometers from Mozhaisk. Their tanks could reach it in two hours. He had no men left. The 29th Army was still en route, the 31st Army was still assembling, and the 32nd Division was gone. He had only a few militia divisions and a few cadet brigades, totaling less than 20,000 men. They had no tanks, no artillery, no anti-tank weapons. They had only rifles and Molotov cocktails.

He picked up the phone and shook it a few times. "Connect to the General Staff."

I waited a long time. There was static on the other end of the line, then the operator's voice: "General Staff Headquarters, please speak."

"I am Zhukov. I am looking for Marshal Shaposhnikov."

After a long wait, Shaposhnikov's voice came through the microphone; it sounded old and tired.

"George, what is it?"

"Vyazma is lost. I need reinforcements. At least two army groups, a tank brigade, and five artillery regiments. I need them now."

Shaposhnikov was silent for a few seconds. "I have no more troops. They're all at the front. Comrade Stalin has ordered troops to be transferred from the Far East, but they won't arrive for two weeks. Until then, you can only use the troops you have."

1

Zhukov held the microphone but did not speak.

"Georgei, hold Mozhaisk. Moscow is counting on you."

The phone call ended. Zhukov put down the receiver, feeling dizzy and lightheaded.

He picked up a red pencil and drew a circle around the location of Mozhaisk. The circle was very small, pitifully small.

He put down his pencil and left the room.

In the corridor, several staff officers were on the phone. Their voices were low and urgent. A young staff officer saw Zhukov, stood up, and saluted.

"General, the vanguard of the 29th Army has arrived. They are assembling in the west of the city."

How many people?

"One regiment. Three thousand people."

"Do you have cannons?"

"Yes. Twelve 76mm guns."

"Where are the tanks?"

"no."

Zhukov nodded. Three thousand men, twelve cannons, to defend a front several tens of kilometers wide. On the other side was a German armored division.

"Send them to dig trenches in the west of the city. I need to see three lines of defense before nightfall."

The young staff officer saluted, turned and ran.

Zhukov walked to the window. Outside, the streets of Mozhaisk were deserted, without pedestrians or vehicles. Only a few soldiers were carrying ammunition boxes, their movements slow and weary. In the distance, the church bell tower still stood, a cross atop its spire gleaming dimly in the twilight.

He stood there, looking at the cross, for a long time.

Then he turned around, walked back to the table, sat down, took out a pack of cigarettes from the drawer, pulled one out, put it in his mouth, and struck a match. The light from the match illuminated his face. His face was expressionless, only weary.

He took a drag of his cigarette, and the smoke billowed from his nostrils, slowly dissipating under the light.

It was dark outside the window.

Zhukov didn't sleep. He sat at the table, smoking one cigarette after another. The phone rang every now and then—from the front lines, from the General Staff, from the Kremlin. Every call brought bad news. He listened to the bad news, expressionless.

At three in the morning, Sokolovsky pushed open the door and came in.

"General, the German vanguard has reached 30 kilometers west of Mozhaisk. Their scouts are probing our positions. They will attack at daybreak."

Zhukov nodded. "Get the troops ready. Everyone in position before dawn."

Sokolovsky hesitated for a moment. "General, the regiment of the 29th Army hasn't dug its trenches yet. The ground is too hard; it's frozen."

"We'll dig even if we can't. With pickaxes, shovels, and our hands. I want to see the trenches before dawn."

Sokolovsky saluted, turned and left.

Zhukov stood up and walked to the window. It was still dark outside; he couldn't see anything. Only the wind blew in from the west, carrying a damp, rainy smell.

He stood there, waiting for dawn.

Daylight broke. There was no sun. The clouds were still thick, greyish-white, like a giant slab of stone overhead. The sound of cannons came from the west, growing closer and denser.

The phone rang. Sokolovsky's voice was urgent.

"General, the Germans have attacked. At least fifty tanks and a regiment of infantry. A breach has been made in the 29th Army's lines. They are requesting reinforcements."

"No reinforcements," Zhukov said. "Tell them to hold on. Hold on even if you're all wiped out."

The call ended. Zhukov stood in front of the map, staring at the point west of Mozhaisk. His fingers tapped on that point, one tap at a time.

The phone rang again.

"General, the second line of defense has also been breached. The 29th Army has suffered heavy losses; the regimental commander and political commissar have been killed in action. The troops are retreating towards the third line of defense."

"Tell the political commissar: No retreating. Anyone who retreats will be shot."

The phone call ended. Zhukov picked up a red pencil and drew another line west of Mozhaisk. The fourth line of defense. No troops were stationed there. Only some militia and logistics personnel.

He put down his pencil and went to the window. Outside, the sound of artillery fire grew closer. He could hear the shells hitting the ground, boom, boom, boom, one after another, shaking the window.

He stood there, motionless.

The phone rang again.

"General, the third line of defense has also fallen. German tanks have broken through our lines and are advancing westward into the city. Our troops have suffered heavy casualties and are out of ammunition."

Zhukov held the microphone but did not speak.

"General, what should we do?"

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