Victory

Chapter 94 Victory

Guderian stood by the window, gazing at the smoke-shrouded sky to the east. His hands were behind his back, his fingers unconsciously tapping the buckle of his belt, a light tap, but in the quiet room, the sound was as clear as the second hand. Levitsky stood behind him, silent. His leg still ached, blood seeping from the bandages, staining his trousers dark red, but he stood ramrod straight. Guderian didn't ask him to sit, and he didn't.

"Colonel," Guderian said without turning around, "how long have you been fighting in this city?"

"Two days."

"Two days. How many casualties did your troops suffer?"

Levitsky paused for a second. "More than a third. More than half of the tanks are lost."

Guderian nodded. He turned and walked to the table, placing his hands on the edge as he studied the map. On the map, the blue arrows were now surrounded by red arrows. Not surrounded, but compressed. Compressing from the east, the north, and the south—simultaneously from three directions. The blue defensive line was shrinking; every street was contracting. His finger landed on the western part of the city. There was still a road there, leading west—the only escape route.

"The 2nd Panzer Division will arrive tomorrow," Guderian said. "But their tanks will need time to be unloaded, time to assemble, and time to advance into the city. They won't be ready for combat until the day after tomorrow at the earliest."

He looked at Levitsky.

"Before that, you must hold the line. Not the entire city, but the west side. The east and the center can be lost, but the west cannot. If the west is lost, the 2nd Armored Division's route into the city will be cut off. If the route is cut off, they can't get in. If they can't get in, you can't get out."

Levitsky stared at the map for a long time. His finger landed on the road west of the city. It was the only highway leading west from Mozhaisk. The road was flanked by open ground; tanks moved fast, but infantry moved slowly. If the Soviet army occupied the high ground on either side of the road and blocked the road with artillery, his troops would be unable to retreat.

"General," Levitsky said, "I need more men. The defensive line on the west side of the city is too long, and I don't have enough soldiers."

Guderian 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 thin, with high cheekbones and deep dark circles under his eyes. He hadn't slept for two 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 men, how many tanks. The numbers were decreasing, constantly decreasing.

"There's no one left," Guderian said. "All the reserves have been committed. The army group is out of men, and the army corps is out of men. I've given you everything I could. The rest is up to you."

He put the cigarette in his mouth and took a drag. Smoke billowed from his nostrils, slowly dissipating in the dim light.

"General," Levitsky's voice was soft, "can we hold out?"

Guderian looked at him. There was no anger or fear in those gray eyes, only a deep calm, as if he had already accepted something.

"Yes," he said. "Not because we are strong, but because we have no way to retreat. If we retreat to the west of the city, what lies behind the west? Minsk. What lies behind Minsk? Poland. What lies behind Poland? Germany. We cannot retreat any further."

He stubbed out his cigarette, walked to the window, and turned his back to Levitsky.

"Get ready. I need to see the western defense line before dawn. Three trenches, each deeper than the last. Minefields, barbed wire, anti-tank obstacles. Dig as deep as you can, bury as many as you can. The Soviets won't give us time, but we must give ourselves time."

Levitsky saluted, turned and walked away. His leg was still injured and he was walking with a limp, but he walked steadily.

Guderian stood alone by the window. Outside, darkness was falling. The western sky was a dark red, not of sunset, but of firelight. A cold wind blew from the east, carrying the smell of gunpowder and acridity. He turned up his coat collar, took out the extinguished cigarette from his pocket, looked at it, and threw it on the ground. He took another 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 hand trembled. Not from fear, but from exhaustion.

He lit a cigarette and took a drag. The smoke swirled in his lungs before exhaling through his nostrils. He thought of 1939. That year he was in Poland, in Brest-Litovsk. His tank charged, Polish cavalry charged. The cavalry fought the tanks, hacking at the armor with their sabers. He won. But he didn't laugh. He stood on the battlefield, looking at the crushed bodies of horses and men, and thought: How could war be like this? A year later, he was in France, in Sedan. His tank crossed the Meuse River, and the French surrendered. He thought the war was over. He wrote a letter to his wife, saying he would be home before Christmas. Now a year had passed, and he was still fighting. Not in France, but in the Soviet Union. Not on the warm plains, but on this frozen land. The French surrendered, but the Soviets did not. They would not retreat, they would not surrender, they would fight to the death.

He stubbed out his cigarette and walked out of the room.

Downstairs, 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 down. He walked to the door, put on his overcoat, and pushed it open. It was cold outside, and the wind was strong. He stood on the steps, looking eastward. There were flames, thick smoke, and the sound of artillery fire. His troops were fighting, and the Soviet troops were fighting too. No one would retreat, no one would run, and no one would surrender.

"General," the adjutant ran up, panting, "the 10th Panzer Division reports that the Soviets have halted their offensive. They are resting in the east of the city and may resume fighting after dawn."

Guderian nodded. "Let the battalions rest as well. Take advantage of the time to eat, sleep, and replenish ammunition. There will be tough battles after dawn."

The adjutant saluted, turned, and ran off.

Guderian stepped down the stairs and stood on the street. The wind was blowing from the east; it was cold and carried the smell of gunpowder and burning.

He climbed up to the second floor, entered the room, and found several staff officers still on the phone, the atmosphere serious and tense.

He stood there all night.

As dawn broke, the cannons roared again, shells flying from the east of the city and exploding on the west. Dust fell from the ceiling. Gudley stood there, expressionless, watching the firelight outside the window.

The shelling lasted for half an hour.

"General!" The adjutant rushed in, his face covered in sweat. "The 2nd Armored Division has called. The advance troops have reached ten kilometers west of the city and are deploying. The division commander is asking whether to proceed directly into the city or rest first?"

Guderian turned around. "Go straight into the city, enter from the highway in the west, push eastward along the main street, and cut the Soviet lines in two."

The adjutant wrote it down in his notebook.

Guderian stepped out of the room, raised his binoculars, and looked westward. At the end of the road, dust billowed as gray tanks lined up in two columns, heading into the city. Panzer IVs, Panzer IIIs, and several newer Tiger tanks chugged their tracks over gravel with a dull thud.

Guderian lowered his binoculars and walked west along the street to the western edge of the city, where a highway ran alongside open ground. Tanks from the 2nd Panzer Division were approaching from the highway.

The first tank stopped in front of him. The hatch on the turret was pushed open, and a young tank crewman poked his head out, his face covered in dust, but his eyes were bright.

"General, 2nd Armored Division, 3rd Battalion, 1st Company. Ordered to enter the city."

Guderian nodded. "Push east along the main street. The Soviet defenses are in the east of the city. Your mission is to break through their lines."

The tank crewman retreated back into the compartment.

Guderian turned around and walked back to the command post.

He climbed up to the second floor and went into the room.

"General," an aide stood up, "the 2nd Panzer Division reports that they have advanced to the city center. The Soviet resistance is strong, with resistance in every street. They have lost five tanks and their infantry casualties are also considerable."

Guderian didn't look up. "Let them keep pushing."

The staff officer sat down and repeated the order into the microphone.

"General." A voice came from behind.

He turned around. Levitsky stood before him, his face covered in ash and his eyes red.

"General, the 2nd Panzer Division has advanced to the east of the city. The Soviet troops are retreating, moving eastward. The remnants of the 10th Panzer Division have also withdrawn, suffering heavy casualties."

Guderian looked at him. "Where are your men?"

"Not many left. The 1st Battalion has a few dozen men left, the 2nd and 3rd Battalions are wiped out. The engineer battalion is gone too. The communications battalion and logistics company have some men left, but they are all wounded."

Guderian was silent for a few seconds. "Have them withdraw. Rest. The 2nd Armored Division will take over the fighting in the city."

Levitsky left in a huff.

Guderian was also tired and rested in his rest area for a long time. When he returned, he had already received news from the front.

"General," a staff officer said, "the 2nd Panzer Division reports that they have advanced to within ten kilometers of the city's east side. Soviet troops are retreating eastward at a rapid pace. The division commander requests permission to continue the pursuit."

Without a second thought, Guderian said, "Keep chasing."

Mozhaisk's strategic importance did not allow the Soviet army to retreat and ambush; pursuing the enemy in victory was the obvious choice.

Guderian walked out of the command post, stood on the street, and let out a long sigh of relief. Taking this city probably meant that the end of the war was not far away.

He turned around and walked west.

He walked for a long time. He reached the western edge of the city, where a highway led west. The vehicles on the highway were going in different directions: those heading east were reinforcements for the 2nd Armored Division; those heading west were the remnants of the 10th Armored Division. The soldiers sat in the vehicles, their lips chapped and dark circles under their eyes.

Guderian stood by the roadside, watching the trucks heading west. Inside were Levitsky's soldiers—survivors of the previous unit.

He turned around and walked back to the command post.

He walked to the table, sat down, took a piece of paper from the drawer, spread it on the table, and picked up a pencil. He wrote an order. He wrote: The 2nd Armored Division continues its eastward pursuit; the 10th Armored Division withdraws to the west of the city for rest and reorganization. All units must complete their deployment by dawn tomorrow.

After he finished writing, he folded the paper and handed it to his adjutant.

"Send them out," he said.

He turned around and walked out of the room.

Downstairs, several staff officers were packing their things. Some were rolling up maps, some were turning off the radio, and some were stuffing documents into their pockets. When they saw him come down, they all stood up.

"General," a staff officer said, "the 2nd Panzer Division has called. They've advanced to within 30 kilometers east of the city, and Soviet troops are retreating towards Narofominsk. The division commander is asking whether to continue the pursuit."

Guderian nodded. "Keep chasing them, all the way to the outskirts of Moscow."

Guderian walked out of the command post and stood on the street, his eyes slightly narrowed.

He turned and walked west. He was going to find Levitsky, to see those who had been wiped out. He wanted to tell them they had held out. The city had held out. The road had held out. Reinforcements had arrived. They could retreat. They could rest. They could go home alive.

He walked for a long time. He reached the west side of the city, where there was a half-collapsed building with several trucks parked in front. Levitsky stood beside the trucks, counting heads. His face was dirty, his lips cracked, and he had dark circles under his eyes. His legs were still bleeding, but he stood ramrod straight. Seeing Guderian, he saluted.

"General."

Guderian walked up to him and stopped.

"Where are your men?" he asked.

Levitsky pointed to the trucks. "They're all here. One hundred and thirty-seven."

Guderian looked at the trucks. Soldiers sat inside, some missing an arm, some missing a leg, some with bandages wrapped around their faces, only one eye visible. Their faces were dirty, their lips cracked, and dark circles under their eyes. But they were alive. Still breathing. Still watching.

"Colonel," Guderian said, "you have made sacrifices for the Empire, done a good job, get some rest."

Levitsky remained silent.

Guderian extended his hand. Levitsky grasped it. The hand was cold, thin, with prominent knuckles, but very strong.

"Take care," Guderian said.

He stood there, looking at the dust, and thought of 1940. That year in France, his tank had chased them in the same way. They reached the coast, and the French surrendered. He thought the war was over. Now, a year later, he was still chasing. Not in France, but in the Soviet Union. Not on the plains, but on this frozen ground. The Soviets were far more resilient than he had imagined, but they still stood there, having fought their way to the foot of Moscow.

He turned around and walked west.

He walked for a long time. When he reached the west side of the city, there was a half-collapsed building with lights on inside. He went inside, climbed to the second floor, and entered a room. He went to the table, sat down, took a piece of paper from the drawer, spread it on the table, picked up a pencil, and began to write carefully, stroke by stroke. His expression was serious, as if he was carefully choosing his words.

He wrote a report to Hitler. He wrote: Mozhaisk has been recaptured today. The Soviet army has suffered heavy losses and is retreating eastward. The 2nd Panzer Division is in pursuit. The 10th Panzer Division needs rest and replenishment.