Entering the City

Chapter 87 Entering the City

On the opposite bank of the river, deep within a spruce forest, lay the forward command post of the German 10th Panzer Division. The post was small, consisting of three half-track command vehicles arranged in a semi-circle, with a canvas tent erected in the center. The tent's canvas was grayish-green, blending seamlessly with the shadows of the trees, making it difficult to distinguish from a distance. The vehicle lights were off, leaving only a faint yellow glow emanating from inside the tent, completely obscured by the canvas.

Colonel Fritz von Levitsky stood at the tent entrance, peering eastward through binoculars. He was forty years old, tall, broad-shouldered, and his face was roughened by the wind and sand. He wore a grey field jacket, the collar open to reveal a rumpled shirt underneath. His boots were covered in mud, and his trousers were half-wet, soaked from wading in the river.

He couldn't see anything to the east. Only darkness and the occasional rustling of leaves in the wind. There were no lights, no fires, no signs of life on the Soviet positions across the river. But he knew there were people there. He could sense it. It wasn't a feeling he could sense through binoculars; it was an instinct possessed only by those who had survived the battlefield.

"Colonel."

Someone called him from behind. He put down his binoculars and turned around. His adjutant stood at the tent entrance, holding a telegram. The adjutant was young, about twenty-four or twenty-five years old, with a thin face and deep dark circles under his eyes. He hadn't slept for two days.

"A telegram from the army group headquarters." The adjutant handed over the telegram.

Levitsky took the telegram and peered into the light of the tent entrance. The telegram was short, containing only a few lines: "The 10th Panzer Division must launch its attack at 5:30 AM tomorrow, break through the Mozhaisk line, and advance towards Moscow. The 7th Panzer Division will deploy on your right flank, and the SS Das Reich Division will provide cover on the left. Army Group Headquarters will provide artillery support. No delays allowed."

He folded the telegram and stuffed it into his pocket. He didn't say anything.

"Colonel," the adjutant hesitated, "our fuel will only last two more days. Our ammunition is almost gone too. The infantry hasn't caught up yet; the reconnaissance battalion reports they're still thirty kilometers behind. If we attack at five in the morning tomorrow, our infantry won't make it."

Levitsky looked at him. "We have to fight even if we can't make it in time. We obey the army group's orders."

The adjutant said nothing more. He saluted, turned, and left.

Levitsky stood alone at the tent entrance. A cold wind blew from the east, carrying the smell of river water and a hint of gunpowder. He turned up his jacket collar and put his hands in his pockets. In his pockets was something—a letter. He had received it yesterday, from Germany. It was from his wife. The letter said that the apple trees at home had yielded a lot of fruit this year, and their daughter had picked a basketful, saying she wanted to save some for him to eat when he came home. He folded the letter, put it back in his pocket, and didn't read it again. He had already read it.

I've watched it three times. I can't watch it anymore. If I do, I won't be able to move.

He entered the tent. Inside, several staff officers were gathered around a folding table, on which lay a map. The map was covered with markings: red for German troops, blue for Soviet troops. The blue defensive line to the east was short and thin, like a thread about to snap. Red arrows surged from the west, densely packed, but stopped about five kilometers west of Mozhaisk. Not stopped, but waiting. Waiting for fuel, waiting for ammunition, waiting for infantry.

"Tomorrow's attack plan," Levitsky said, pointing to a point on the map. "The 2nd Panzer Battalion will lead the attack, crossing the river at its narrowest point. After crossing, do not linger, ignore the Soviet forces on the flanks, and charge directly east to the outskirts of Mozhaisk. The 1st Panzer Battalion will provide cover on the right flank, and the 3rd Panzer Battalion on the left. The engineer battalion will be responsible for building bridges; three pontoon bridges must be erected within thirty minutes. The artillery battalion will deploy on the opposite bank to provide fire support."

A staff officer raised his hand. "Colonel, the infantry won't make it. If the Soviets counterattack from the flank after we cross the river, our tanks will have a hard time fighting without infantry cover."

"The Soviet army has no tanks," Levitsky said. "They've used up all their tanks in previous battles. They only have infantry, rifles, and anti-tank grenades. Our tanks can run them over."

The staff officer remained silent.

Levitsky straightened up and glanced at his watch. 10 PM. Seven and a half hours until the attack.

"All battalions, prepare for battle. At 4:00 AM, all troops will move into their attack positions. At 5:30 AM sharp, the attack will commence."

The staff officers jotted it down in their notebooks. Levitsky stepped out of the tent and walked deeper into the woods. He needed to be alone for a while.

The forest was dense, the spruce branches drooping to the ground like walls. A thick layer of pine needles covered the ground, making no sound underfoot. He walked for about ten minutes and stopped in front of a clearing. A dozen tanks were parked there, including a grey Panzer IV with its gun barrel facing east. Some tank crew members were smoking beside the tanks, some were dozing off against the tracks, and some were checking the engines. A young soldier was squatting on the turret of one of the tanks, holding a rag and wiping the gun barrel. He was wiping it very carefully, stroke by stroke, as if he were polishing a precious piece of porcelain.

Levitsky walked over and stood next to the tank.

"Whose car is this?" he asked.

The young soldier jumped down from the turret and stood at attention.

"Mine, Colonel."

"What's your name?"

"Baker. Fritz Beck. 2nd Armored Battalion, 4th Company."

Levitsky nodded. He looked at the tank. Its body was covered in scratches, some from shrapnel, others from tree branches. The tracks were caked with dried mud. The gun muzzle bore black soot marks from firing.

"Can your car still run?" he asked.

"Yes, Colonel," Baker said. "The engine was just replaced, and the gearbox was repaired. The gun barrel is a bit worn, but it can still fire. As long as we have enough fuel, we can get to Moscow."

Levitsky looked at his face. It was a young face, with a wispy mustache just beginning to grow on his lips, and bright, grey-blue eyes.

"Are you scared?" he asked.

Baker paused for a moment. He thought for a moment, then shook his head.

"Don't worry, Colonel."

Why?

"Because I believe we can win."

Levitsky didn't speak. He patted the tank's armor, turned around, and continued walking deeper into the woods.

He walked for a long time. The woods grew denser, and the light grew dimmer. Finally, he stopped under a large tree, leaned against the trunk, took a cigarette from his pocket, put it in his mouth, and struck a match. The light from the match illuminated his face. His face was tired, with heavy bags under his eyes and high cheekbones.

Inside the command post, the staff officers were still busy. Some were on the phone, some were looking at maps, and some were organizing documents. Levitsky walked to the table, picked up the red pencil, and drew a circle around the location of Mozhaisk on the map.

"Take this place tomorrow," he said.

Everyone nodded silently.

At four in the morning, Levits stood by the river, looking at the opposite bank.

It was still dark. A thin, grayish-white mist hung over the river, skimming the surface. Nothing could be seen on the opposite bank, only darkness. His tanks were already lined up behind him, engines warming up, white steam billowing from their exhaust pipes. The infantry hadn't arrived yet. Only tanks, and armored grenadiers behind them. They weren't infantry; they were riding in armored vehicles. The vehicles could move, but the riders couldn't stay seated forever. Once they reached the riverbank, they would have to dismount and follow the tanks on foot.

The engineers had already begun building the bridge. They dragged rubber boats out of the woods, paddled to the middle of the river, laid planks on the boats, and tied them together with ropes. Their movements were quick and skillful, but very noisy. The clatter of the planks, the screech of the ropes, and the whispers of the men carried far into the quiet night.

Levitsky looked across the river. There was no movement. No gunfire, no lights, no reaction. The Soviet troops were either asleep or waiting. He preferred they were asleep.

At 5:15, the artillery began firing.

It wasn't the artillery he commanded, but the army group's artillery. Hundreds of guns fired simultaneously, shells flying overhead, landing on the opposite bank, exploding, and shooting flames into the sky. The earth trembled, the river swayed, and the air vibrated. Levitsky crouched on the riverbank, his hands covering his ears. He could feel the vibrations of the shells hitting the ground, one after another, like someone pounding the earth with a giant hammer.

The shelling lasted for twenty minutes. At 5:35, the shelling stopped. The Soviet positions on the opposite bank of the river were shrouded in smoke and dust, and nothing could be seen.

"Attack!" Levitsky shouted.

The first tank charged onto the pontoon bridge. The bridge swayed, but it didn't collapse. The tank moved slowly, its tracks grinding against the planks with a dull thud. It crossed the river, drove onto the east bank, its turret spinning, the gun barrel pointing towards the Soviet positions. The second tank followed, then the third, then the fourth. They formed a line and drove toward the trenches.

Levitsky followed behind the tank, trudging along the muddy riverbank. His boots were waterlogged and heavy, requiring a struggle to pull them out with each step. His adjutant walked beside him, carrying a folder containing maps and attack plans.

The tank drove into the smoke. The smoke was so thick that nothing could be seen. Only the sounds of the engine, the tracks grinding against the ground, and the occasional gunfire could be heard. Levitsky stopped and raised his binoculars. Through the smoke, he saw the outline of trenches. Not complete trenches, but collapsed trenches, riddled with gaps. People were running in the trenches, small and far away, like ants.

The tank reached the trench. Its tracks rolled over sandbags, over rifles, over the men still running. The gunfire intensified; it wasn't rifle fire, it was machine gun fire. Soviet machine guns swept across from the other end of the trench, bullets striking the tank's armor with a clang and ricocheting. The tank's turret spun, the cannon barrel pointing towards the machine gun. Fire. The machine gun stopped.

Levitsky continued walking. He passed the tank, the crushed trenches, and a still-smoking corpse. The body lay face down on the ground, its overcoat charred, revealing the cotton wadding underneath. He didn't look at the face.

He didn't want to know who that person was. Was it a Soviet soldier, an enemy, or a rock blocking his path? A rock doesn't need a name.

The tanks continued eastward. They moved slowly, less than ten kilometers per hour, but steadily. Infantry followed behind, bent over, rifles at their sides, trudging through the muddy fields. Their faces were dirty, their lips chapped, and dark circles under their eyes.

They haven't slept for two days.

Levitsky glanced at his watch. 6:20. Less than an hour before the crossing, they had advanced five kilometers. At this pace, they would reach Mozhaisk before noon. He picked up his binoculars and looked east.

The fields stretched out in the binoculars. Grayish-black, pitted and scarred, riddled with bullet holes and charred tree stumps. In the distance was a river, not the one they had just crossed, but a smaller one. A stone bridge spanned the river, old and narrow. Beyond the bridge, the outlines of several houses could be seen. Mozhaisk.

"Colonel," the adjutant called to him.

Levitsky lowered his binoculars. His adjutant handed him a telegram. It was from the 2nd Battalion.

"The advance troops have reached five kilometers west of Mozhaisk. A second Soviet defensive line has been spotted ahead, with anti-tank guns and mines. Requesting instructions."

"Go around," Levitsky said. "Don't stop and fight. Go around to the north, where there's a swamp. Tanks can't get through, but the Soviets won't have a large force there either. Go around the edge of the swamp and get to the north side of Mozhaisk."

The adjutant wrote it down in his notebook, then turned and ran away.

Levitsky continued walking. His legs were heavy; the water in his boots hadn't been emptied, and each step made a gurgling sound. His back ached from an old injury he'd sustained in France. He endured the pain and kept going.

At 7:20, the vanguard arrived at the outskirts of Mozhaisk.

The tanks bypassed the Soviet second line of defense from the north and surged into the outskirts of the city along a dry riverbed. The Soviet troops were caught off guard. Their anti-tank guns were still positioned on their positions west of the city, their muzzles pointing west, and they hadn't had time to turn them around.

Levitsky stood on a small hill, looking at Mozhaisk through his binoculars. The city's outline emerged in the morning light. The houses were low, mostly wooden, gray, and huddled together. The streets were narrow, winding, and labyrinthine. Smoke billowed from chimneys; people were cooking. The church bell tower still stood, a cross atop its spire gleaming dimly in the morning light.

His tanks had entered the city. Those gray steel behemoths moved slowly through the narrow streets, their tracks screeching as they ground over gravel and broken glass. Infantry followed behind, rifles at their ready, searching house after house. Occasionally, a few gunshots rang out, then silence returned.

"Colonel, a call from the 1st Panzer Battalion." The adjutant ran over. "They've taken control of the west and north of the city. The Soviet troops are retreating, moving eastward. The prisoners say the defending force is an infantry regiment from the 5th Army, plus some militia, less than two thousand men. Most of them have been scattered."

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Levitsky nodded. "Have the 2nd Panzer Battalion continue its eastward advance, preventing the Soviets from reorganizing their lines. The 3rd Panzer Battalion will deploy south of the city to prevent a Soviet counterattack from the south. The 1st Panzer Battalion will remain in the city, waiting for the infantry to arrive before advancing further."

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