Stalemate

Chapter 92 Stalemate

Levitsky's hands were still shaking.

He lowered his binoculars, gripping his left wrist with his right hand, trying to stop the trembling. But he couldn't. It wasn't cold, it wasn't fear, it was anger. Anger surged from his chest, up to his throat, to his eyes, to his fingertips. He wanted to smash something, to curse something, to do something. But he could do nothing. He could only stand there, watching his troops retreat.

The adjutant was still standing beside him, waiting for him to speak. His young face was covered in sweat, with deep dark circles under his eyes, and his lips were chapped and bleeding.

The battle lasted for two whole days. The Germans had tactics, and the Soviets had willpower. Neither side was willing to back down, and neither side gained the upper hand.

"Colonel," the adjutant's voice was soft, as if afraid of alerting something, "the 2nd Battalion commander has been killed. The 1st Battalion has also been scattered. Our anti-tank guns—"

"I know," Levitsky interrupted him.

He turned away, his back to the east of the city. He didn't want to look anymore. It was pointless. His troops were retreating, the Soviets were chasing. With each street they retreated, a piece of his position was lost. With each piece lost, his chances of victory diminished. He closed his eyes, the numbers spinning in his mind. How many men, how many tanks, how many cannons. The numbers were decreasing, decreasing relentlessly, like sand in an hourglass, unstoppable.

He opened his eyes.

"Where is the 3rd Battalion located now?"

The adjutant opened his notebook. "North of the city. They just destroyed eight Soviet tanks, but suffered heavy losses as well. More than half of them have been killed or wounded. The battalion commander requests a retreat."

"Don't retreat," Levitsky said. "Let them defend where they are. Hold the alleys on the north side of the city. The Soviet flank is there; if they come around from the north, we're all finished."

The adjutant wrote it down in his notebook and turned to leave.

"And another thing," Levitsky called after him, "bring up all the reserves. Engineer battalions, communications battalions, logistics companies, everyone. Give them guns, give them grenades. Have them dig trenches in the west of the city. If one isn't enough, dig three. Dig until the Soviets can't keep up."

The adjutant hesitated for a moment. "Colonel, the engineers in this battalion have never fought in combat—"

"If you haven't fought it before, fight it now," Levitsky interrupted him. "The Soviet army won't wait for them to learn."

The adjutant saluted, turned, and ran off.

Levitsky stood alone on the rooftop. A cold wind blew, carrying the smell of gunpowder and acridity. He turned up his coat collar and pulled the letter from his pocket. The paper was thin, folded several times, and the edges were frayed. He didn't open it, but simply held it in his hand. He held it for a long time, then put it back in his pocket.

He walked down the stairs and stood on the street.

The streets were littered with broken bricks and ash; the walls were riddled with holes, some round, some square, some crooked. Several corpses lay by the roadside, some covered with military overcoats, some without. Blood seeped from beneath the bodies, pooling in the cracks of the rubble, forming small, dark red puddles, like congealed paint. No one claimed the bodies. There was no time, no strength, to claim them.

He walked past the corpses, past the holes in the walls, past the soldiers squatting at the base of the walls smoking. The soldiers saw him, stood up, and saluted. He waved for them to sit down. He walked to the street corner, where a bombed-out T-95 stood—

34. The turret was blown off, the hull was overturned, and the tracks were still spinning, making a screeching sound. He stood next to the tank, looking at it. There were bullet holes on the hull, many bullet holes, some through, some not. There was a deep scratch on the gun barrel, as if it had been scraped by something.

"Colonel." A voice came from behind.

He turned around. A young soldier stood before him, his face covered in grime, his eyes bloodshot. His overcoat was soaked with mud, his trousers were half-wet, and his boots were torn and bound with strips of cloth. He held a rifle in his hand, butt on the ground, muzzle pointing skyward.

"What is it?" Levitsky asked.

"The 3rd Battalion sent me to deliver a message. They said they couldn't hold out any longer. The Soviets had circled around from the flank; they had a lot of men and tanks. They were almost wiped out and out of ammunition. The battalion commander said that if no reinforcements arrived, he would have to retreat."

Levitsky looked at the soldier with a stern gaze.

"Go back and tell your battalion commander," Levitsky said, "there are no reinforcements. There's no retreat. Hold the line. Hold the line even if you're wiped out."

The soldier looked at him, his lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but he didn't. He saluted, turned around, and ran into the alley. His figure was small and thin, and he quickly disappeared into the dim light.

He knew the 3rd Battalion wouldn't hold out much longer. A battalion, several hundred men, had fought all morning, and more than half were dead or wounded. No anti-tank guns, no tanks, only rifles and grenades. What could they use to stop the Soviet tanks? Their bodies? Their lives?

He turned around and walked back to the command post.

The command post was located in a partially collapsed building in the west of the city. The first floor had been bombed, but the second floor remained standing. The stairs were broken, so he had to climb up. He climbed to the second floor and went into the room. Several staff officers were on the phone; some were shouting, some were cursing, and some were crying.

They all fell silent when they saw him come in.

He walked to the table, placed his hands on the edge, and looked at the map. On the map, the blue arrows were retreating, from the east of the city to the center, and from the center to the west. The red arrows were chasing, surging in from the east, densely packed, like an endless swarm of locusts. His finger landed on the north side of the city. There was a small, thin blue arrow there, surrounded by red arrows. It was the 3rd Battalion. They were surrounded.

"Colonel," a staff officer stood up, "the 3rd Battalion has sent a telegram. They're surrounded. Ammunition is running low, and casualties are heavy. The battalion commander requests permission to break out."

Levitsky didn't look up. "No breakout. Hold the line."

The staff officer hesitated for a moment. "Colonel, they can't hold out—"

"I said hold the line." Levitsky looked up at the staff officer.

The staff officer didn't speak again. He sat down and repeated the order into the microphone.

Levitsky lowered his head, continuing to study the map. His finger moved from the north to the west, from the west to the south, and from the south to the east. His defensive lines were shrinking; every street was shrinking. His troops were dwindling; every minute they were dwindling.

He straightened up, 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 expressionless, only weary. He took a drag, and smoke billowed from his nostrils, slowly dissipating in the dim light.

"Colonel," the adjutant rushed in, holding a telegram, "the 2nd Armored Battalion has sent a message. They still have five tanks operational, but only enough fuel for another twenty kilometers. The battalion commander is asking whether to continue fighting or withdraw?"

Levitsky thought for a moment. "Keep fighting. Concentrate all the tanks on the west side of the city and line them up in a row on the street. The Soviet tanks coming from the east side of the city will have to pass through that street. Fight there. Fight until you run out of fuel, until you run out of ammunition, until you can't move anymore."

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

Levitsky stood alone at the table. He smoked, staring at the map. The blue arrows grew thinner, the red arrows thicker. His defenses were like a torn net, hole after hole, riddled with holes. He tried to plug one with his finger, but another broke. He tried to plug one with his palm, but another broke. He had no hands.

Major General Dolmatov squatted behind a half-collapsed building in the east of the city, a cigarette dangling from his lips, the filter burned down to its end, but he hadn't thrown it away. His overcoat was covered in ash, his hat brim blackened by smoke, and a cut on his face from shrapnel had dried into a black scab. He squinted, looking towards the city. The sound of artillery fire echoed incessantly, shaking the ground. His tanks rolled past, one after another, their tracks screeching over the gravel.

The chief of staff crawled over, squatted down next to him, and held a telegram that had just been received.

"Major General, the 244th Division reports that they have advanced to the city center. German resistance is strong; fighting is taking place in every street. We have suffered heavy losses; nearly half of our tanks have been lost."

Dolmatov threw his cigarette butt on the ground and stubbed it out with his boot. "Half? How many?"

"Twelve T-34s were lost, three KV-1s were lost, and one IS-2 was lost."

Dolmatov cursed. He stood up, dusted off his knees, and peered into the city through his binoculars. The smoke was too thick; he couldn't see anything. He could only see flickering firelight, like someone hammering an anvil in the dark. He put down the binoculars, took a piece of dry rations from his pocket, broke off a small piece, and put it in his mouth. The rations were hard and crunchy when he chewed. He chewed a few times and swallowed.

"Are there still people of ours in the city?" he asked.

The chief of staff was taken aback. "What?"

"I said, there are still our people in the city. Not our regular army, but the militia. Those who broke through the walls, those who hid in the buildings and fired shots. Are they still there?"

The chief of staff opened his notebook and glanced at it. "Scouts report that there is still sporadic resistance in the east of the city. There are not many people, probably a few hundred. They are surrounded in a few buildings, and the German infantry are clearing them out."

Dolmatov stuffed the dry rations back into his pocket. "Hundreds? Still alive?"

"Yes. They've been fighting for a whole day and night."

Dolmatov didn't speak. He looked towards the city, at the buildings, those buildings emitting smoke.

He turned to look at the chief of staff. "Where is the 247th Division located now?"

"In the south of the city. They are engaged in firefight with the German rearguard. Progress is not going well; German tanks are blocking the road and can't get through."

"Tell them to stop fighting," Dolmatov said. "Withdraw from the south of the city, circle around to the north, and attack from the north. The German forces are concentrated in the west and east of the city; the north is empty. Attack and rescue those who are besieged."

The chief of staff was stunned. "Major General, withdraw from the south of the city? We finally managed to break in—"

"I said retreat, so we retreat." Dolmatov interrupted him. "What's the point of attacking? Even if we drive away the German rearguard, they'll just run off to the west of the city. We don't want land, we want people. We still have our people in the city, they're waiting. Rescue them first, then we'll fight."

The chief of staff wrote it down in his notebook, then turned and ran away.

Dolmatov squatted down, picked up a stone from the ground, and drew a line on the ground. The line started from the south of the city, went around to the west, turned to the north, and then entered the city. After he finished drawing it, he wiped the line away with his boot.

"Pass on my orders," he told another staff officer. "The 244th and 246th Divisions cease their attack. Remain in place and await further orders. Once the 247th Division has circled around to the north of the city and begun firing, then advance from the front. Attack from both sides and tear through the German lines."

The staff officer jotted it down in his notebook, saluted, and ran off.

Dolmatov stood up and brushed the dust off his knees. He walked to the wrecked T-34 and looked at it. There were bullet holes in the vehicle, many bullet holes. He reached out and touched one of the bullet holes; the edges were curled up, like an iron flower. Few.

"Major General." A voice came from behind.

He turned around. A young soldier stood before him, his face covered in grime, his eyes bloodshot. His overcoat was soaked with mud, his trousers were half-wet, and his boots were torn and bound with strips of cloth. He held a rifle in his hand, butt on the ground, muzzle pointing skyward.

"What is it?" Dolmatov asked.

"A company commander from the 244th Division sent me to deliver a message. He said they had found several militiamen in a building in the city."

He's still alive, but dying. There's no ammunition, no food, no water. The company commander asked if they could send someone to rescue him.

Dolmatov looked at the soldier. "How many? How many militiamen?"

"About a dozen or so. There was also a captain named Andrei. He was wounded; a piece of his leg was grazed off by shrapnel."

Dolmatov was silent for a few seconds. He turned around and looked towards the city. The buildings were still smoking, the cannons were still firing, and the gunfire was still ringing out. His men were still fighting, and the people in the city were still waiting.

"Tell that company commander," he said, "to mark the location. Send men to rescue them. Send a platoon, no, a company. Rescue all those militiamen, not one less."

The soldier saluted, then turned and ran.

"Major General," the chief of staff ran over, panting, "the 247th Division has withdrawn. They're moving north of the city. They're expected to be there in an hour."

Dolmatov glanced at his watch. Four o'clock in the afternoon. One hour left.

"Get the artillery regiment ready. Fire at five o'clock sharp. Survey all the German positions west of the city. Get the 244th and 246th Divisions ready. At five o'clock sharp, attack. Push forward from the front, don't stop, keep pushing. Have the 247th Division break in from the north of the city at five o'clock and cut the German lines in two. The Germans are waiting for a turning point, but we won't give them that chance."

Dolmatov glanced sharply around and swallowed hard.

"Advancing across the entire front—this is the first major achievement of the Great Patriotic War!"

The chief of staff wrote it down in his notebook, and then his eyes lit up.

Dolmatov crouched down, picked up the stone from the ground, and drew another line on the ground. This time, the line was thicker and straighter. After he finished drawing, he threw the stone away, his eyes narrowed, and waited for the cannon fire.