Clash

Chapter 88 Clash

Lorraine was awakened by the sound of cannon fire.

It wasn't just one or two sounds, but many, a continuous chorus like thunder. The earth trembled, the wood of the bunker creaked and groaned, and dirt crumbled from the cracks. He opened his eyes and saw that it was already dawn. Not true dawn, but the kind of dawn illuminated by artillery fire. The western sky was a dark red, flickering with the firelight, like someone was reflecting sunlight into a giant mirror.

He crawled out of the bunker. Outside, the soldiers in the trenches were already in position. They lay prone on the trench walls, rifles propped on sandbags, muzzles pointed towards the opposite bank of the river. No one spoke, only the sounds of artillery fire and occasional shouts. A young soldier crouched in the trench, his hands covering his head, his body trembling. An older soldier next to him kicked him, said something, and he released his grip, lay down on the trench wall, and picked up his rifle.

Captain Andrei stood beside the peephole, holding up his binoculars and looking across the river.

The shells rained down harder. Not behind the lines, but in front of the trenches. Dirt and gravel flew up, hitting the trench walls and helmets with a crackling sound. Loran crouched down, bracing himself against the trench wall. He could feel the vibrations of the shells hitting the ground, one after another, like someone hammering the earth with a giant sledgehammer.

The shelling lasted for twenty minutes. Then it stopped.

"They're here," Andrei said.

Loran looked out through the peephole.

On the opposite bank of the river, at the edge of the forest, the first batch of tanks emerged from the undergrowth. Gray, square-shaped, with long gun barrels. They lined up in a row, heading towards the river. Engineers followed behind the tanks, carrying rubber boats and planks, preparing to build a bridge. Further away, more tanks poured out of the forest, one after another, like a gray river.

Loran counted them. There were at least twenty; he couldn't count anymore, there were too many.

Andrei didn't count. He turned and walked along the trench, shouting as he went, "Ready. Wait for them to cross the river. Fight after they're across."

The soldiers set up their rifles, placed their grenades beside them, and took the anti-tank grenades from the boxes, placing them on the trench wall. These anti-tank grenades had wooden handles; they were long, heavy, and resembled hammers. A young soldier picked one up, weighed it in his hand, and then put it down. His face was pale, and his hands were trembling.

German engineers began building the bridge. They pushed rubber boats into the river, rowed to the middle, laid planks on the boats, and secured them with ropes. Their movements were quick and practiced. Tanks waited on the riverbank, their engines whirring, white steam billowing from their exhaust pipes.

"Fire!" Andrei shouted.

The mortars fired from behind the position. Shells flew overhead, landing on the river and sending up white plumes of water. A rubber boat was hit, capsized, and the engineers fell into the water, thrashing about. Another boat continued paddling forward. The mortars fired again, shells landing on the riverbank and exploding, sending mud flying. A tank was hit; the shell struck the turret and bounced off, but the tank didn't stop.

The German tanks opened fire. Not on the trenches, but on the mortar positions. The shells landed behind the positions, exploded, and the mortars stopped firing.

"We've crossed the river!" someone shouted.

The first rubber boat reached the shore. Engineers jumped out, crouched on the bank, and secured the pontoon bridge with ropes. A tank drove onto the pontoon bridge; it swayed, but didn't collapse. It crossed the river, drove onto the east bank, its turret rotating, the gun barrel pointing towards the trenches. The second tank followed, then the third, and the fourth.

"Attack!" Andrei shouted.

Rifles fired. Machine guns fired. Grenades flew out, exploding in front of the tanks, the dust billowing up and obscuring visibility. But the tanks didn't stop. They kept moving forward, firing as they went. Shells landed in the trenches, exploding, sending dirt and rubble flying. People fell, people screamed, people fired.

Loran lay face down, clutching his head. Dust fell from above, hitting his back hard. He heard someone shouting, not yelling, but giving orders. Andrei's voice was steady and loud.

"Anti-tank crew, charge!"

A soldier jumped out of the trench, holding an anti-tank grenade in his hand.

"Andrei!" Loran shouted.

Andrei didn't turn around. He squatted down beside the observation hole, holding binoculars, watching the tanks getting closer and closer.

His face was expressionless, only weary.

"The second one," he said.

Another soldier jumped out. This time, he didn't reach the tank. A bullet hit his leg, and he fell, crawling on the ground, struggling to move forward. He crawled for about ten meters and threw an anti-tank grenade. The grenade landed in front of the tank, exploded, and the resulting dust obscured visibility. The tank emerged from the dust cloud.

Andrei lowered his binoculars. He grabbed an anti-tank grenade from the trench wall, pulled the pin, and jumped out of the trench.

"Andrei!" Loran shouted.

Andrei didn't turn around. He had just stepped out when he was shot in the left arm by a rifle, and blood gushed out.

"Captain!" A soldier rushed over and pressed a first-aid kit against his wound.

Andrei pushed him away. "Don't worry about me. Fight."

He looked up and saw Lorraine.

"You haven't left yet?"

"no."

Andrei didn't speak. He took a cigarette out of his pocket, put it in his mouth, and struck a match. The match went out. He struck another, and that went out too. His hand was trembling.

"Andrei," Loran said, "how much longer can you hold out?"

Andrei put the cigarette back in his pocket. He looked west. More tanks emerged from the smoke, gray, square, with long gun barrels. They lined up and drove toward the trenches. Infantry followed behind the tanks, bent over, rifles at their sides.

"I don't know," he said.

He leaned against the trench wall and stood up. His legs were bleeding, but he stood straight.

"Get ready!" he shouted. "They're coming!"

Loran crouched in the trench, watching the tanks draw closer. He thought of North Africa, of Agaira, of the trenches crushed by tanks in the desert. Back then, he had plenty of tanks, artillery, and soldiers. Now he had nothing. Only his hands, his eyes, and an identity that allowed him to watch but not fight.

A tank surged to the front of the trench. Its tracks crushed sandbags, rifles, and a still-moving body. Loran heard a short, sharp sound from that body, and then it was gone. He closed his eyes, then opened them again.

"Attack!" someone shouted.

The rifle fired. A Molotov cocktail flew out, smashed into the tank's engine compartment, shattered, and spilled gasoline, igniting it. The tank was ablaze, flames leaping from the hatch, and German soldiers crawled out, engulfed in flames, rolling on the ground. More tanks surged out of the smoke.

Loran grabbed a Molotov cocktail from the trench wall, lit a strip of cloth with a lighter, and threw it. The Molotov cocktail arced through the air, landed on the turret of a tank, shattered, and the gasoline dripped down and ignited. The tank was on fire, but it didn't stop. It continued moving forward, the turret rotating, the gun barrel pointing towards the trench.

The shells are falling. Very close.

Loran lay on the ground, his hands covering his head. The earth buried him halfway. He struggled to his feet, shaking off the dirt. His ears were ringing; he couldn't hear anything. He saw Andrei shouting, but couldn't make out what he was saying. He saw soldiers running, some west, some east, some standing still, rifles at the ready.

A tank charged into the trench. It didn't come from there; it drove in. Its tracks rolled over the trench wall, the tank tilted, but didn't overturn. It came to a stop in the trench, its turret spinning, the gun barrel pointing towards Loran.

Loran stared at the cannon barrel. It was dark and enormous.

A shot rang out. Not from the tank's cannon, but from a rifle. A soldier crouched not far from Loran, rifle in hand, firing into the tank's observation port. The bullet struck the armor and ricocheted. He fired again; it ricocheted again. The tank's turret turned, the cannon barrel pointing at him. Fire.

The soldier was gone. There was only a wisp of smoke and a few tattered pieces of cloth scattered on the trench wall.

Loran crouched down and ran along the trench. He ran past the fallen bodies, past the soldiers still firing, past the destroyed rifles and scattered shell casings. He ran for a long time, until he reached the end of the trench, jumped out, and stood in the field.

He looked back.

The trenches had been breached. German tanks were pouring in through the breach, one after another, like a gray river. Infantry followed behind the tanks, rifles at their heels, trudging through the muddy fields, running eastward. Soviet soldiers were retreating, not walking, but running. Some carried rifles, some were empty-handed, some were supporting the wounded. No one looked back.

"Andrei!" he shouted through gritted teeth again. Although interfering with command and doubting orders were taboo, he had to speak out: the city could not be defended; he had witnessed it with his own eyes.

Based on the current troop strength, the only option is to delay the enemy along their marching route, which would allow them to complete the encirclement with the arriving reinforcements.

The fighting inside the city remained intense. German tanks filed in, spreading out like a spider web throughout the city. Each tank was accompanied by an infantry squad, and each infantry squad was equipped with riflemen and gunners, making them more mobile than tanks.

The German army entered Mozhaisk and made a tentative, slow advance, while a tight information network was gradually unfolding.

Captain Andrei was Ivankov's most trusted captain. Although he only had the rank of captain, he was able to command the entire army. Instead of immediately arranging for his soldiers to counterattack, he made a decision that even he himself could not believe.

Even before the battle, he had called on the city's residents to resist. To his surprise, when he stood on the stage to give his speech with a guilty conscience, everyone showed a resolute expression at the same moment.

Fight! The will of a fighting nation will never be defeated by gunfire. A nation with a glorious history will never be subjugated by any country in the world.

The residents became the militia, and those with leadership skills stepped forward spontaneously, followed by resolute faces that demonstrated their courage.

Some cried out in despair, "Where can we escape to?" Hitler hated the Soviet Union to the core; all he could do was fight. It was either wait to die or die in battle.

Andrei's eyes were blurry with tears. If this weren't wartime, everyone here would be a good worker, a good husband, a good man. But tomorrow, almost everyone here would die.

Human life is at stake! But tanks don't reason with people. Even if you plead or get angry, all you get in return are shells, and all you get is death and despair.

Andrei was speechless. He choked up and distributed guns and radios to each militia captain. It was the only thing he could do.

Now, looking at the German tanks, he estimated that the city would be captured in two hours.

He spoke into the radio: "Everyone, prepare to fire. Tanks, begin firing after passing through the minefield. Prioritize saving lives; avoid unnecessary sacrifices!"

Time fell silent as Andrei began to check his weapons and ammunition, took a deep breath, and prepared to immediately enter the front lines.

Ivankov sat in the chair next to him, puffing on his cigarette, his hands clenched into fists.

"After I die, you will command the retreat." Andrei pushed open the door and glanced at Ivankov.

Andrei knew about this battle; holding out was necessary because if the Soviet army retreated any further, there would be no way out, and if Moscow fell, the entire Soviet Union risked paralysis. Retreat was also necessary, because they needed to preserve their strength for winter; only then would the fighting power of the Soviet people be truly demonstrated.

But someone always has to make the sacrifice.

The battle at Mozhaisk did not go smoothly. The Germans' weapons and equipment were clearly of much higher quality than those of the Soviets, and their marksmanship and ability to utilize cover were also far superior.

The tanks quickly passed through the minefield, and their advance did not slow down. On the contrary, the Soviet troops were plunged into deep panic.

The militiamen, who had never experienced combat, would tremble and their hands would shake uncontrollably at the sound of gunfire. They even had difficulty walking and were spotted by the Germans, who shot them on the spot.

Andrei hid behind a wall, and after his shots failed, he closed his eyes and leaned against the wall. This was nothing short of a massacre; watching his compatriots fall one after another, he could do nothing.

Finally, he turned on the radio and issued the order: "Everyone retreat immediately! Retreat to the east of the city to prepare for a counterattack!"

Loran finally bypassed the army and rushed to the command room. As soon as he pushed open the door, he saw Ivankov sitting on the sofa.

Ivankov's face had lost all its color from yesterday. He glanced listlessly at Loran, then slumped into a chair.

"How are you?" Loran asked him, panting heavily.

"Not so good. Zhukov said we should die here, hold out for one day and it'll be a victory, hold out for two days and it'll be a great achievement, hold out for three days and I'll be a general, ha."

Ivankov laughed as he spoke.

"How could this be a matter of a single order? How could it be something that can be done just by talking? The enemy is an entire armored division!"

We are several thousand people and militia.

"How long do we have left in terms of food and ammunition?" Loran asked Ivankov earnestly and seriously, without having time to say anything else.

Ivankov noticed the wrinkles on Loran's brow and realized something was wrong. He tentatively asked, "Ammunition for about a week, food for even longer. What do you think? Do you have any ideas?"

"If I said I could hold off the Germans for a week, would you give me command?" Loran asked earnestly. He was just an observer from another country, and such a request was indeed somewhat absurd.

Ivankov stared at Loran in disbelief. He couldn't understand how a foreigner who knew nothing about the Soviet Union could have the confidence to say something so certain.