Evacuation

Chapter 95 Evacuation

Loran remembered the moment the retreat began.

Without needing orders, a feeling suddenly arose in his mind, something silent, like the receding tide. One second he was inside the building, crouching beside a hole in the wall, listening to the gunfire outside. The next second, the gunfire subsided. People ran past him. He peeked out and saw people on the street running west, as if an invisible hand was pushing them all westward. At that moment, he knew it was time to retreat.

He stood up, but his legs were numb and he couldn't stand steadily, so he leaned against the wall for support. But he still walked away as quickly as possible, leaving behind the German prisoners of war.

As he walked out of the building, he glanced back. He had stayed in that building for three days. In those three days, he climbed from the first floor to the third floor and back again, crawled through dozens of holes, and squatted in more than a dozen rooms. He was quite familiar with the route.

The streets were deserted. Not deserted, but everyone had run ahead. Weapons and supplies lay scattered on the ground; most people had thrown away everything they could, sacrificing only their lives. Loran had no gun or backpack, only a coat and a pass in his pocket. He checked his pocket to make sure the pass was still there, then began to head west.

I walked very slowly. My legs were still numb, and every step felt like walking on cotton. Smoke was billowing from the buildings on both sides of the street.

After walking for about ten minutes, they heard someone calling. Not for help, but a name. The voice was hoarse and broken. "Misha—Misha—" Loran looked in the direction of the sound. A woman was squatting by the roadside, a soldier lying in front of her. Shrapnel had torn off a piece of his leg; blood seeped from the bandages, staining his trousers dark red. The woman's hand was pressed tightly against his leg, but the blood was still flowing. She kept calling, "Misha—Misha—" The soldier didn't answer. His eyes were closed, his face as white as paper.

The two cried bitterly.

Lorraine staggered past them without giving them a second glance. He had no medical tools. All he could do was walk.

Reaching the street corner, she turned onto a wider street. There, a small group of people were retreating. Their footsteps rustled like falling leaves. Loran ran with the crowd. After a while, her legs stopped numb, but her lungs began to ache. Every breath felt like sucking knives into her lungs.

Logically speaking, his current physical condition shouldn't have resulted from running for a short period of time, but the continuous fighting over the past few days has been too exhausting, and his body has already issued a warning that he doesn't have much strength or energy left.

They ran through one street, then another. The buildings along the streets became fewer and fewer, and the open spaces became more and more, so the team decided to take a short break.

Loran slowed down as well. He walked to a birch tree, leaned against it, closed his eyes and panted. He took out some dry rations from his pocket, broke off a small piece and put it in his mouth.

"Loran".

He looked up. Petrov stood before him, his face covered in grime, his eyes red. His overcoat was muddy, his trousers were half-soaked, 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.

"You're not dead yet," Petrov said.

"He's not dead."

Petrov nodded, still looking numb. He took out a piece of dry rations from his pocket, broke off a small piece, put it in his mouth, chewed a few times, and swallowed it.

"Where are the men from the 244th Division?" Loran asked.

Petrov chewed the dry rations for a long time before swallowing them.

"I don't know. They got separated."

He leaned against another tree, resting his rifle against the trunk, and closed his eyes. His face was dirty, his lips were chapped, and there were dark circles under his eyes. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again.

"Let's go. We haven't arrived yet."

He picked up his rifle and continued westward. Lorraine followed behind. They walked slowly. Their legs felt like lead, each step requiring all their strength. Petrov walked ahead of him, his steps steady. He no longer carried the rifle; it was slung over his shoulder, muzzle pointing backward, like carrying a log.

After walking for about an hour, there were more people on the road.

Lorraine saw an officer standing by the roadside, holding a map and looking at it. His uniform was neat, his hat brim was pulled low, and his face was expressionless. He glanced at the map a few times, folded it, and stuffed it into his pocket.

They walked for about two more hours. It was getting dark. The western sky was a dark red, not from sunset, but from firelight.

The wind was blowing from the east; it was cold and carried the smell of gunpowder and burnt metal.

There was a village ahead. It wasn't big, just 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 Petrov, one of them stood up and waved.

"Petrov! Over here!"

Petrov walked over. Loran followed behind. The soldiers were from the 244th Division; some recognized Petrov, some didn't. They surrounded Petrov, asking him all sorts of questions.

How many men are left in the Second Battalion?

"Where's the company commander? Is he still alive?"

Petrov didn't answer. He took a piece of dry rations from his pocket, broke off a small piece, and put it in his mouth. He chewed for a long time before swallowing, and perhaps thinking of something sad, his nose twitched.

"The Second Battalion is gone," he said. "The company commander is dead too."

Everyone shrank back in surprise.

Loran leaned against the oak tree and closed his eyes. He heard crying. He opened his eyes and saw a young soldier crouching under the tree, his hands covering his head, his shoulders shaking. His overcoat was covered in mud, and his rifle lay at his feet. An old soldier knelt down beside him, patted him on the shoulder, and said nothing. The young soldier looked up, his face streaked with tears. He stared at the old soldier, his lips trembling.

The veteran stood up, dusted off his knees, and turned to leave. The young soldier hesitated for a few seconds, then stood up, picked up his rifle, and followed him.

Loran watched that retreating figure and suddenly thought of Andrei. He was in Mozhaisk, in that half-collapsed building, a cigarette dangling from his lips, watching the tanks charge. He said he wouldn't retreat anymore. But he still retreated helplessly, a situation beyond his control.

He closed his eyes, then opened them again.

"Let's go," Petrov said.

They continued westward. It grew darker, and the road became increasingly difficult to see. Petrov walked ahead, each step firm and deliberate, but Lorraine knew he was tired too. His pace slowed further, his shoulders slumped, and his head bowed unconsciously, as if counting pebbles on the ground.

They walked for a long time. They came to a river. The river wasn't wide, and the water was shallow enough to see the stones at the bottom. There was a stone bridge over the river; it was old and narrow. The bridge was crowded with people, all heading west.

After crossing the bridge, there was a dirt road. Fields stretched out on both sides. The road surface gleamed a dim white in the moonlight, like salt scattered on the ground. The road was long, with no end in sight. Loran walked behind Petrov, watching his back. His military overcoat was dirty, with a tear in the back from shrapnel, revealing the cotton wadding inside. The cotton wadding was blindingly white in the moonlight.

They walked for a long time. When they reached a small hill, Petrov stopped and looked back towards the east, where a large ball of fire was burning brightly in the darkness.

"Loran".

"Um.

""

"Tell me, we retreated so far, so many people died, was it worth it?"

Without a second thought, Loran said, "It's worth it."

They walked for about two more hours until they reached Narofominsk, where there were already many retired soldiers in the town.

Loran found the 5th Army's command post at the east end of town. The command post was located in a two-story stone building, with two guards standing at the door, rifles at the ready. He showed his pass, the guards glanced at it, saluted, and stepped aside to let him in.

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 a map, and others were organizing documents. Govorov had also arrived in the town. He 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 Mozhaisk?"

Loran was silent for a few seconds. "It's lost. The 2nd Armored Division has entered the city. Our troops are retreating."

Govorov sighed and looked at Loran again.

"What about the 244th Division?"

"On the way. Heavy casualties."

Govorov tapped his finger on the window frame. He turned, walked back to the table, and sat down. He took a piece of paper from the drawer, spread it on the table, and picked up a pencil. He wrote a few lines, then put down the pencil, folded the paper, and stuffed it into his pocket.

"Report to Comrade Zhukov," he said. "Mozhaisk has fallen. The 5th and 31st Armies are retreating towards Narofominsk. Reinforcements are needed."

He looked up at Loran.

"Go back. This is not a place for you."

Lorraine stood there, motionless.

"General," he said, "I want to stay."

Govorov looked at him. "What are you staying for? You have no guns, no soldiers, no command. You can only watch. And what good will watching do?"

Loran did not speak.

Govorov lowered his head and glanced at Loran's hand.

"Whatever you want," he said. "Just don't die."

""

Loran saluted, turned and walked out.

He was going to find Petrov. He walked for a long time until he reached a building on the east side of town. Several trucks were parked in front of the building, with soldiers sitting inside. Some were smoking, some were dozing, and some were eating dry rations. Petrov was squatting beside one of the truck wheels, drinking a bowl of hot soup. When he saw Loran, he nodded.

"Have some soup." He handed me the bowl.

Lorraine took the bowl and took a sip. The soup was salty and very hot; it warmed his stomach after swallowing. He drank a few more sips and then returned the bowl to Petrov.

"Petrov," he said, "where are you going next?"

Petrov thought for a moment. "I don't know. Waiting for orders. Maybe to Moscow, maybe somewhere else."

He put the bowl on the ground, took a cigarette out of his pocket, put it in his mouth, and struck a match. The light from the match illuminated his tired face.

"And you?"

Loran thought for a moment. "Back to Moscow."

Petrov took a drag of his cigarette. Smoke billowed from his nostrils and slowly dissipated in the darkness.

"Take care," he said.

Take care of yourself too.

Petrov threw the cigarette butt on the ground and stubbed it out with his boot. He stood up, dusted off his knees, shouldered his rifle, and went into the building. His thin figure quickly disappeared into the dim light.

Loran stood there, gazing in that direction for a long time. Then he turned and walked west. He was going back to Moscow, back to the embassy, ​​back to write his report. To write down everything he had seen in Mozhaisk.

He walked for a long time. He came to a highway, flagged down a truck heading east, and climbed into the cargo bed. The cargo bed was full of ammunition boxes. He squeezed among the boxes, leaned against the wooden planks, and closed his eyes.

When he opened his eyes again, it was almost dawn. They had arrived in Moscow. The streetlights were on, casting a dim, yellowish glow. He jumped out of the car and stood in front of the embassy. Karl was still standing there, holding a cup of tea.

"You're back," Carl said.

He remained as calm and composed as ever.

"Mozhaisk has fallen, and in less than a month, a large-scale offensive against Moscow is expected," Loran warned.

"Yes," Carl said regretfully.

Aren't you scared?

Karl switched the teacup to his left hand, and with his right hand, he took a neatly folded handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth. His movements were slow and meticulous, as if he were doing something requiring patience. After wiping his mouth, he folded the handkerchief again, put it back in his pocket, picked up the teacup, and took another sip. The tea had gone cold, but he didn't seem to notice.

"Afraid?" He repeated the word, thought for a moment, and said, "I've been here for over a year. I've lost count of how many times German planes have come. I've lost count of how many times the sirens have gone off. At first I was afraid, but then I wasn't. In other words, I got used to it."

He looked at Lorraine. Lorraine stood rooted to the spot, his overcoat covered in dust, a tear in the collar from shrapnel that he himself didn't even know it. His trousers were half-soaked, his boots worn through, revealing the felt socks underneath. His face was filthy, his lips chapped, and deep dark circles under his eyes. He didn't look like someone who had just returned from the battlefield, but rather someone who had just crawled out of the ruins.

"Are you injured?" Carl asked.

Lorraine looked down at his coat and saw the tear. He touched it; there was no blood.

"No. My clothes were torn."

Karl nodded. He turned and pushed open the embassy door, walking inside. Lorraine followed behind. The corridor was quiet; the carpet was still so red, the wall lamps still so dim. They went up the stairs, and when they reached the second floor, Karl stopped.

"Sir Cripps has asked you several times. He wants to know what's happening at the front."

I'll go see him tomorrow.

Karl nodded and continued walking upstairs. Reaching the third floor, in front of Loran's room, Karl stopped and handed him a teacup.

"You should get some rest."

"Okay." Loran breathed a sigh of relief.

Back in his room, he collapsed onto the bed. It was so soft he felt like he was sinking into it. He hadn't slept in a bed for days. In Mozhaisk, he'd slept in far too many dirty, hard places—places so hard they made his bones ache.

He rolled over and buried his face in the pillow. The pillow was soft and smelled of laundry detergent. He closed his eyes, his mind still filled with the sounds of artillery shells.

He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. The crack in the ceiling was still there, stretching from the corner to the lamp base. Looking at it, he thought of Petrov. Petrov had said that those who are not afraid to die die the fastest, and now, looking at it this way, he was certainly right.