Tug-of-War

Chapter 93 Tug-of-War

Loran crouched on the second floor of a building in the east of the city, peering through a hole in the wall at the activity across the street. Night was falling; the light shifted from grayish-blue to dark gray, and the rubble and broken glass on the street resembled piles of white bones in the twilight. He had been crouching there for almost an hour; his legs were numb, but he didn't move. To his left was a wall, to his right a wall, in front of him a hole, and behind him a hole.

The whole building is like a beehive, full of holes. People crawl in and out of the holes, as busy as bees.

After Andrei was carried away, Loran didn't go with him. He stayed and continued searching inside the building. Not because he wanted to fight, but because he hadn't seen enough. He was an observer; his job was to watch. He would go back and report to the people in the west how the Soviets were fighting. Now he saw it. He saw holes in the walls, people inside the building, and corpses in the street.

A soldier crawled out from the next room and squatted down beside him. The soldier was young, with a round face, large eyes, and a wispy mustache just beginning to grow on his lips. His overcoat was covered in dust, and he held a rifle in his hand, the muzzle pointed across the street. He glanced at Loran but said nothing.

"What's your name?" Loran asked.

Petrov.

"Petrov, which unit are you from?"

"244th Division, 2nd Battalion, 3rd Company." Petrov's eyes remained fixed on the other side of the street.

Loran followed his gaze. Across the street was another identical building, greyish-white, with dark, gaping windows. There was a small opening on the ground floor, just big enough for one person to pass through. Beyond the opening was another room, which in turn had openings leading to even more distant places.

"Where are the German troops?" Lorraine asked.

Petrov pointed to the second floor of the building across the street. "Over there. Behind the window. There are two, a machine gunner and his assistant. They're waiting for nightfall. After dark, they'll change positions."

""

Loran stared at the window. It was pitch black; he couldn't see anything. But he trusted Petrov. Petrov had been squatting there all day; he knew what was on the other side.

"How many have you fought?" Loran asked.

Petrov paused for a few seconds. "Five. Today."

A flash of light came from a window across the street. German soldiers were looking this way through binoculars. Petrov ducked back, pressed himself against the wall, and held his breath. Loran also ducked back. The two men crouched motionless against the wall.

I waited for a long time. There was no movement from across the street.

Petrov slowly peeked out, glanced at the scene, and then withdrew his head.

"I'm leaving," he said.

He stood up, bent over, and crawled through the hole in the wall. Lorraine followed behind.

They crawled up to the third floor of another building. There was a window there, facing west. Petrov crouched beside the window, rested his gun on the windowsill, and aimed. Lorraine crouched beside him, took out binoculars from his pocket, and held them up to look west.

Flames leaped out of the window, and black smoke rose into the air, where it was dispersed by the wind, turning into a hazy gray mist.

"The major general said, 'Attack at five o'clock,'" Petrov said. "What time is it now?"

Lorraine glanced at her watch. "4:40."

"Twenty minutes left."

Petrov holstered his gun, leaned against the wall, took a piece of dry rations from his pocket, broke off a small piece, and put it in his mouth. He chewed slowly, taking a long time to swallow each bite. Loran also took out his dry rations, broke off a small piece, and put it in his mouth. The rations were hard and made a crunching sound when he chewed them.

He stood up, rested his gun on the windowsill, and aimed. Lorraine also raised his binoculars. To the west of the city, the German tanks and infantry were still there.

At five o'clock sharp, the cannon fired precisely on time.

The shell flew overhead, landed on the west side of the city, and exploded, sending flames soaring into the sky.

The shelling lasted for twenty minutes. At 5:30, the shelling stopped.

"The attack has begun," Petrov said.

Urban warfare differs from open warfare; although the sounds are constant, sometimes no one can be seen.

He stood up, rested his gun on the windowsill, and aimed. Lorraine also stood up and raised his binoculars. From the west of the city, Soviet tanks, T-34/76s, surged out of the alleys, their guns pointing forward. Infantry followed behind the tanks, bent over, rifles at their sides, trudging through the muddy streets, running westward.

Both sides opened fire almost simultaneously.

The T-34's shell hit the frontal armor of the Panzer IV and ricocheted. The Panzer IV's shell hit the T-34's turret and ricocheted as well. The distance was getting closer, less than 100 meters. The T-34 fired again, this time hitting the Panzer IV's tracks. The tracks broke, and the Panzer IV was paralyzed, unable to move. The Panzer IV's turret was rotating, the gun barrel pointing at the T-34. Fire. The shell hit the T-34's hull and penetrated. The T-34 emitted a plume of white smoke, followed by a plume of black smoke.

More tanks surged in from both sides. T-34s and Panzer IVs, gray and green, clashed together in the narrow street like two iron beasts, tearing at each other and firing their cannons. Shells struck the armor, clanging and clattering, sparks flying.

Petrov fired. Not at the tanks, but at the infantry. A German soldier poked his head out from behind a tank, Petrov pulled the trigger, and the man fell. Another German soldier ran out from behind a wall, Petrov pulled the trigger again, and that man also fell.

"Petrov," Loran said.

"Um.

"How many shots did you fire?"

"Six shots. Six."

Petrov put the gun away, changed the magazine, and continued aiming.

Gunfire erupted from the north of the city. Loran turned his binoculars northward. The 247th Division had broken in from the north, tanks leading the way, infantry following. A gap had been torn in the German lines, and troops were retreating to both sides. Soviet tanks surged through the gap, heading east. Their mission was to rescue the besieged militia.

Loran put down the binoculars, let out a long sigh, and then raised his arm again.

This time, he saw a half-track command vehicle drive from the west of the city and stop at the street corner. The door opened, and a man jumped out. He wasn't tall, but had broad shoulders, and wore a gray field jacket and a military cap. He stood at the street corner, holding up binoculars and looking east. Behind him were several staff officers, some on the phone, some looking at maps, and some waiting for him to speak.

Loran didn't recognize the man. But he knew who he was. Anyone who could appear here at this time was either a general or a colonel. He was there to command, to save the day, to pull the German army back from its rout, and he held a very high position; Mozhaisk was a crucial city.

The man lowered his binoculars, turned around, and said a few words to his staff officer behind him. The staff officer jotted it down in his notebook, then turned and ran off. The man raised his binoculars again and continued looking eastward. His movements were slow, steady, and unhurried. He didn't seem like someone in retreat, but rather someone strolling through a battlefield.

"Petrov," he said.

"Um.

""

"I'm leaving."

Petrov glanced at him. "Where to?"

"Go find someone."

Petrov didn't ask who he was looking for. He nodded and continued aiming.

Lorraine stood up, bent over, and crawled through the hole in the wall. He crawled through one room, then another, and yet another. He reached the first floor, climbed out of the window, and jumped into the street.

He ran for a long time. He ran past the bombed-out buildings, past the holes in the walls, past the scattered shell casings. He ran to the eastern edge of the city, where there was a highway leading east.

He flagged down a truck heading east and climbed into the cargo bed. The cargo bed was full of wounded soldiers.

Loran leaned against the side of the carriage, looking out the window. The fields receded, gray and black, uneven and bumpy, and the sounds gradually subsided.

The truck drove for about an hour and stopped in Podolsk. Loran jumped out and went into town. He found the 5th...

The army group's new command post was in a gray-white building. Two guards stood at the entrance, rifles at the ready. He showed his pass, the guards glanced at it, saluted, and stepped aside.

He went up to the second floor and pushed open a door. The room was messy; several staff officers were on the phone, some were looking at maps, and others were organizing documents. Govorov stood by the window, his back to the door, looking west. His overcoat was covered in ash, and the brim of his hat was blackened by soot.

"General," Loran said.

Govorov turned around. His face was tired, with heavy bags under his eyes and chapped lips. He looked at Loran for a few seconds.

"You're back," he said.

"I'm back."

"How's the front line going?"

Loran was silent for a few seconds. "The Germans are building a new defensive line in the west of the city. The 31st Army is fighting hard, losing half of its tanks."

Govorov didn't speak. He turned around and continued looking out the window.

“And another,” Lorraine said, “I saw a man. A German soldier. He got off in a half-track command vehicle on the west side of the city. He wasn’t tall, had broad shoulders, and was wearing a gray field jacket. He was giving orders.”

Govorov paused for a moment. He turned and looked at Loran.

"Do you know him?"

"I don't know him. But I think he's Guderian."

Govorov's eyes narrowed. "Guderian? Are you sure?"

"Uncertain. But his appearance, his movements, and the way his staff treated him were unlike those of an ordinary colonel."

Govorov was silent for a few seconds. He walked to the table, picked up the phone, shook it a few times, and said into the receiver, "Connect to the General Staff. Speak to Comrade Zhukov."

There was a pause on the other end of the phone. Zhukov's voice came through the receiver, hoarse and tired.

"What is it?"

"Guderian has arrived in Mozhaisk," Govorov said.

There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the phone. "Are you sure? You came in person?" Zhukov could be heard gritting his teeth.

"Not sure. But someone saw a senior officer directing operations in the west of the city. He was wearing a gray field jacket and riding in a half-track command vehicle. He didn't look like an ordinary colonel."

Zhukov was silent for a few more seconds. "Understood. Keep fighting. Don't stop."

The call ended. Govorov put down the receiver and looked at Loran.

"Go back and rest," he said. "We might have to go to the front lines again tomorrow."

Loran nodded, turned and walked out.

The corridor was quiet. He walked down the stairs and out of the building. Outside, it was already dark. There was no moon, no stars.

There was only wind, blowing from the west, and it was cold. He turned up his coat collar and put his hands in his pockets. There was a piece of paper in his pocket, Stalin's pass. He felt around to make sure it was still there.

He turned around and walked east.

They walked for a long time. When they reached the embassy entrance, Karl was still standing there, holding a cup of tea.

"You're back," Carl said.

Guderian stood in a half-collapsed building in the west of the city, looking east through binoculars. Daylight had broken, and the sunlight streaming in from the east was blinding.

But he knew there were people over there. He could sense it. It wasn't a feeling he got through binoculars; it was an instinct that only someone who had survived the battlefield possessed—an instinct that unconsciously observes the terrain when under pressure.

"General." The adjutant stood behind him, holding a report in his hand.

Guderian lowered his binoculars and turned around. His adjutant handed him the report.

"The 10th Armored Division reports that they lost seventeen tanks and suffered over five hundred casualties yesterday. The 3rd and 2nd Battalions are decimated, and the 1st Battalion has also lost more than half its strength. The division commander requests a retreat."

Guderian looked at the report with doubt and skepticism on his face, then handed it back to his adjutant.

"Don't retreat," he said. "Let them defend where they are. Concentrate all the tanks on the west side of the city and line them up in a row on the street. Soviet tanks coming from the east side of the city will have to pass through that street. Fight there. Fight until they run out of fuel, until they run out of ammunition, until they can't move anymore."

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

Guderian turned around and went downstairs.

The street was littered with broken bricks and ash, and the walls were riddled with holes—some round, some square, some crooked. He crouched down and peered into one of the holes. At the other end was another room, and within that room were several more holes leading to further places. He couldn't see what was at the other end. Maybe someone was there, maybe not. Maybe there was a gun, pointed directly into the hole.

He stood up and dusted off his knees.

"General." A voice came from behind.

He turned around. Levitsky stood before him, his face covered in dust, his eyes red. His overcoat was soaked with mud, his trousers were half-wet, and his boots were torn and bound with strips of cloth. He saluted.

"Colonel Levitsky," Guderian said, "your troops fought well."

Levitsky remained silent.

"But that's not enough," Guderian said. "Your defensive lines are shrinking, your troops are dwindling. At this rate, you won't last three days."

Levitsky looked at him. "General, we have no reinforcements, no fuel, no ammunition. How are we going to hold on?"

Guderian was silent for a few seconds. "Reinforcements are here. The 2nd Panzer Division is on its way and will arrive tomorrow. Fuel and ammunition are also being transported and will arrive the day after tomorrow. Until then, you must hold the line."

Levitsky's eyes lit up. "The 2nd Armored Division?"

"Yes, you have to hold on until then." Guderian nodded.

"Pass on my orders," he said. "All troops, take up defensive positions. No retreat is permitted; anyone who retreats will be shot on the spot."

The adjutant saluted the notebook, then turned and slunk away.

Guderian stood there, gazing at the flames, his eyes flickering slightly. He thought of 1940. That year, he was in Sedan, France. His tanks surged across the Meuse River, chasing westward to the sea. It seemed like only yesterday; a war that might have lasted years in the past now felt like a mere blink of an eye.