Support

Chapter 90 Support

Zhukov's fingers remained on his temples, having been rubbing them for a long time.

His skin was red from rubbing, but he didn't stop. It wasn't a headache; it was that the string in his mind was too taut, so taut that his temples throbbed, as if something was trying to burst out. He closed his eyes, but the map in front of him was still clear in the darkness—not seen with his eyes, but memorized in his mind. Mozhaisk, to the west, blue arrows covered the entire city. To the east, the red defensive line was in Podolsk, short and thin, like a thread about to snap.

The 32nd Army was completely annihilated. The telegram arrived at 3 a.m., containing only one line: "The unit is no longer organized; the remnants are retreating eastward." He didn't ask how many men were left. He didn't want to know. Knowing would only make him feel worse.

The 29th Army was engaged in combat with the enemy inside the city. Not combat, but being attacked. No tanks, no artillery, no anti-tank weapons, only rifles and Molotov cocktails. What could they use to fight? What could they use to wage war? But the telegram said "combat," so he treated it as combat. He was the commander; he had to believe his troops were still fighting.

The 31st Army was still in the rear. Dolmatov was ready; the troops, equipment, and ammunition were all in place. He was just waiting for the order. Would he give it? If he did, the 31st Army would move west from Podolsk, shifting from defense to offense. To attack a city already occupied by the Germans. To attack a city with tanks, artillery, and aircraft.

His soldiers only had rifles, he had few tanks, and his artillery couldn't fire very far. To attack was suicidal.

But what if they don't give it to them? If they don't, Mozhaisk will be completely lost. Losing Mozhaisk will give the Germans a stronghold. With a stronghold, they can push eastward, to Podolsk, to the outskirts of Moscow. At that point, it won't be a question of offense versus defense; it will be a question of whether they can hold it at all.

He opened his eyes. There was coffee on the table, already cold. He picked it up and took a sip; it was bitter and astringent. He put the cup down, took a cigarette from the pack, put it in his mouth, and struck a match. The match's light illuminated his face. His face was tired, with heavy bags under his eyes, high cheekbones, and skin sallow from the smoke. He took a drag, and the smoke billowed from his nostrils, slowly dissipating in the lamplight.

The secretary stood at the door, waiting.

Zhukov stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, stood up, and walked to the map. His finger landed on Mozhaisk. That dot had been circled several times in blue, the circles growing thicker and darker. His finger moved east, landing on Podolsk. There was a small, thin red dot there. Further east was Moscow. No more circles. He couldn't draw any more. Any more and he'd be drawing the Kremlin.

He turned around.

"Contact the commander of the 31st Army. Launch an immediate operation and strike Mozhaisk at all costs. The operation will last for one full day."

The secretary's face remained expressionless. He made a note in his notebook and nodded.

"Understood, Comrade Zhukov."

He turned and walked away. His boots clicked on the floor, the sound fading into the distance until they disappeared at the end of the corridor.

Zhukov stood alone before the map. He stared at the blue arrows, the dense, surging arrows coming from the west. They were like locusts, like a flood, like some unstoppable force. His troops were retreating—not retreating, but rout. They had retreated seven hundred kilometers from the border. With every kilometer retreated, he lost a division, a regiment, a battalion. He didn't know where else he could retreat to. Perhaps to the outskirts of Moscow, perhaps to Red Square, perhaps to the walls of the Kremlin.

He walked back to the table and sat down. He picked up the extinguished cigarette, looked at it, and threw it into the ashtray. He took another cigarette from the pack, put it in his mouth, and struck a match. The match went out. He struck another, and it went out too. His hands were trembling. Not from fear, but from exhaustion. He hadn't slept for three days. Not because he didn't want to sleep, but because he couldn't. Every time he closed his eyes, his mind was filled with those numbers. How many divisions, how many people, how many tanks. The numbers were decreasing, constantly decreasing, like sand in an hourglass, unstoppable.

He lit a cigarette and took a drag. The smoke swirled in his lungs before exhaling through his nostrils. He watched the smoke slowly dissipate in the lamplight, and he thought of June 22, 1941. That day, the Germans attacked. He thought he could hold them off. He thought his troops could hold them off. He thought the Soviet Red Army was the best army in the world. He was wrong. His troops retreated, and kept retreating. They retreated for three months, 6 kilometers, losing millions of men, thousands of tanks, and thousands of aircraft. He thought the worst was over. But it wasn't. The worst was yet to come.

He stubbed out his cigarette, stood up, and walked to the window. Outside, it was still dark. A dark red light stretched across the eastern horizon, like a gaping wound. He stood there, watching the wound slowly widen and brighten, dyeing the entire sky a dark red. He thought of his daughter. She was ten years old, in Leningrad. He hadn't heard from her for two months. He didn't know if she had any food, if she had any firewood, or if she would still be alive to see him return.

He turned around, walked back to the table, and sat down.

He had to wait. He would wait for news from Dolmatov, for news from Mozhaisk, for news he didn't want to hear but had to hear.

Major General Dolmatov stood at the entrance of the command post, watching the troops assembling.

It was still dark. A cold wind blew from the west, carrying the smell of gunpowder. He turned up his coat collar and put his hands in his pockets. In one pocket was a piece of paper, a telegram Zhukov had just sent. He read it three times, memorizing every word. "Strike Mozhaisk at all costs. For a full day." At all costs. He knew what those four words meant. It meant no cost, no casualties, no consequences. Just fight. Fight to what extent, fight to what extent, fight until how many people are left.

He turned around and walked back to the command post.

The command post was small, an abandoned school classroom. Chalk writing remained on the blackboard—an arithmetic problem, the handwriting crooked and illegible, the work of a child. He didn't erase it. He walked to the table, rested his hands on the edge, and looked at the map. On the map, Mozhaisk was to the west, less than forty kilometers from his troops. The German blue arrows covered the entire city, but his red arrow was still to the east, unmoved.

The chief of staff stood beside him, holding a newly compiled troop list.

"Major General, the 244th Division has completed its assembly at the designated location. The 246th Division is on its way and is expected to arrive in one hour."

The 247th and 249th Divisions are also close. The tank regiment has already set off, and the vanguard is advancing towards Mozhaisk.

"What about the equipment?" Dolmatov asked.

「坦克团有T—34/76二十辆，T—34/85十二辆，KV—1八辆，IS—2四辆。炮兵团有76毫米炮二十四门，122毫米炮十二门。反坦克炮营有45毫米炮十八门。迫击炮营有82毫米迫击炮三十六门。弹药充足，够打三天。」

Dolmatov nodded. The numbers swirled in his mind, forming a picture. In the picture, his tanks were lined up, heading west. German tanks charged out from Mozhaisk and rammed into them head-on. Artillery fire, smoke, burning iron. His tanks stopped one after another, burned one after another, and became scrap metal one after another. But the ones behind kept moving forward.

"Major General," the chief of staff said, "the soldiers are ready."

Dolmatov looked up at the chief of staff. The face was young, not yet thirty, with deep dark circles under his eyes, but his eyes were bright.

"Ready?" Dolmatov asked.

"Ready."

Dolmatov was silent for a few seconds. He walked to the window and looked at the soldiers standing in formation outside. They stood in the morning light, wearing military overcoats, carrying rifles, their faces expressionless. Some were smoking, some were talking quietly, and some were doing nothing but standing there. Their faces were young, with just-grown fuzz on their lips. They didn't know where they were going, who they were going to fight, or whether they would ever return.

Dolmatov turned around and walked back to the table. He picked up the phone, shook it a few times, and said into the receiver, "Connect the division commanders."

The phone rang a few times before someone answered.

"This is Dolmatov. Order: All troops attack and surround Mozhaisk. Hold positions 30 kilometers outside the city and await further orders."

He put down the phone, put on his coat, and walked out of the command post.

Outside, it was already daylight. The sun hadn't risen yet, but the eastern sky had turned a greyish-blue. The wind had stopped, and the air was cold, making his nose sting. He got into the command vehicle, and the driver started the engine. The vehicle headed west; the road was terrible, riddled with craters and gravel. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

The numbers were still swirling in his mind. Four infantry divisions, a tank regiment, an artillery regiment, an anti-tank gun battalion, and a mortar battalion. More than 40,000 men, over a hundred tanks, and dozens of artillery pieces. That was all the troops he had. He was going to lead them to attack a city already occupied by the Germans. To attack a city with tanks, artillery, and aircraft. To fight a battle he had no idea whether he could win.

He opened his eyes. Outside the window, the fields receded. Grayish-black, potholed and uneven. Several bombed trucks lay overturned by the roadside, some still smoking. Several bodies lay beside the trucks, covered with military overcoats, a thin layer of dust on them. No one was collecting the household registrations. There was no time to collect them, nor the strength to do so.

The vehicle drove for about an hour before stopping in front of a small village. The village was small, with a dozen or so wooden houses huddled together. At the village entrance stood an old oak tree, its trunk thick and its bark cracked. Several soldiers were squatting under the tree, smoking. Upon seeing the command vehicle, they stood up and saluted.

Dolmatov jumped out of the car and walked into the village. The command post was set up in a wooden house at the east end of the village, with two guards standing at the door, rifles at the ready. He pushed open the door and went inside.

The cabin was dark. Only a kerosene lamp hung on the wall, its dim light illuminating the faces of several people. These were division commanders; some were standing, some were sitting, and some were looking at maps. When they saw Dolmatov enter, they all stood up.

Dolmatov waved for them to sit down. He walked to the table, rested his hands on the edge, and looked at the map.

"The Germans have already captured Mozhaisk," he said calmly. "Their vanguard is in the west, their main force in the city, and their rearguard in the east. Our mission is to attack from the east, break through their lines, enter the city, and fight them in street battles."

He looked at the faces of those division commanders.

"How do you fight urban warfare? Not with tanks, but with infantry. Tanks can't move around in the city, and artillery can't fire accurately in the city. Only infantry, rifles, and grenades are available. Clear building by building, push street by street. Every step forward comes at a price."

He paused.

"But we must push. Because Mozhaisk cannot be lost. Moscow cannot be lost."

No one speaks.

Dolmatov straightened up. "The 244th Division will lead the main attack, breaking through from the east front. The 246th Division will provide cover on the left flank, and the 247th Division on the right. The 249th Division will serve as a reserve, ready to be deployed at any time. The tank regiment will follow behind the infantry, providing fire support. The artillery regiment will deploy five kilometers east of the city and bombard the German positions."

He looked at the commander of the 244th Division. "When will you arrive?"

Three hours.

"Three hours," Dolmatov repeated. "In three hours, I want to see your troops launch an attack in the east of the city."

The commander of the 244th Division saluted, turned, and left. The other division commanders followed suit. Dolmatov was left alone in the cabin.

He stood there, looking at the map. Blue arrows dotted the area around Mozhaisk. Red arrows were scattered to the east. His finger landed on the eastern part of the city. There was a river there, spanned by a bridge. The bridge was old and narrow, made of stone. His troops would cross the bridge to enter the city. German tanks would be waiting for them at the bridgehead.

He picked up a red pencil and drew a circle around the location of the bridge. Then he drew a larger circle outside the larger one. The larger circle represented his artillery, and the smaller circle represented the German tanks. His artillery had to destroy the German tanks before his troops could cross the bridge. Only after crossing the bridge could they enter the city. Only after entering the city could they engage in street fighting.

He put down his pencil and walked out of the cabin.

Outside, it was already broad daylight. The sun rose in the east, its light white and blinding. A cold wind blew from the west, carrying the smell of gunpowder. He stood there, looking westward. There were fires there, not just one, but many. Mozhaisk was burning. He watched for a long time, then got into the command vehicle.

"Go to the east of the city, I want to see what Mozhaisk looks like after it's been bombed."