Chapter 248

< World War II - The Decisive Battle (4) >

April 9, 1942

Near Shostaka, Northern Ukraine – Soviet Artillery Unit

The southern part of the Kursk Theater.

From the far distance, a chain of cannonades echoed as a deafening roar filled the sky.

Captain Yakov Dzhugashvili reflexively ducked, protecting his head with his arms.

Soon, the artillery barrage slammed into the ground, letting out a thunderous roar.

“Ugh!”

Dirt and dust rained down on Yakov.

As Yakov coughed in the hazy visibility caused by the dust-filled air, screams could be heard from beyond the thick smoke.

“Aaaargh!”

“Mama, Mamaaa!”

The Artillery Unit, positioned near Shostaka to support the Battle of Kursk, had done its best against the enemy's overwhelming artillery power.

However, the tide of the Battle of Kursk, fought with so many sacrifices, had already turned, and the Artillery Unit had been nearly wiped out.

Superiors had ordered them to retreat with as much of the field artillery as they could salvage, but at this rate, they would all die. Finally, Yakov shouted loudly.

“Retreat, retreat! Abandon the field artillery! Retreat to Kursk!”

Was there an answer? How many of his men were still alive?

Even in that situation, a sky-tearing roar was heard, and Yakov ducked again.

Once more, dirt and dust pelted his back and head.

-Don't overdo it.

The words of his father, General Secretary ‘Stalin,’ came to mind.

His father, who had abandoned him at his in-laws' house when his mother died in his childhood, dedicating himself to Communist Party activities.

He remembered his aimless youth, wandering due to conflicts with his stepmother and resentment towards his father.

It wasn't the roar of artillery shells in the sky, but the sound of an aircraft passing by.

Bombs soon fell, the ground shook, and sparks flew.

Yakov, who had been ducking from the continuous shelling, got up and started running frantically.

What did he mean when he asked me to look after Svetlana?

His stepmother's daughter, only four years his junior, who had hated him so fiercely during his childhood.

After that stepmother who had despised him so much committed suicide, Yakov seemed to have felt a sense of kinship with his half-sister, who began to wander just as he once had.

The sorrow of a lonely family, and all those countless people sacrificed for the sake of the Soviet Union.

Was there any meaning to it?

Yakov ran until he was completely out of breath, escaping the thick smoke of the burning artillery position.

He could then see soldiers running alongside him in the same direction.

He didn't want to look back at the carnage.

He didn't want to see the sight of the Soviet Union collapsing.

If the Soviet Union his father had built collapsed like this…

Himself and his family, who had lived unhappily because of his father's ambition, and all the sacrifices made under the justification of defending this Soviet Union—what was it all for?

“C-Captain!”

Yakov’s thoughts were shattered by an urgent shout.

“Get down!”

“What?”

At the sound of his subordinate’s cry from a distance, Yakov dazedly turned his head to follow the man's gaze.

And he saw a military aircraft flying towards him, riddling the ground with its machine guns.

-

April 10, 1942

Smolensk-Rzhev Theater, Western Soviet Union

At the point when the Soviet Army at Kursk had begun to collapse and retreat, on the Western Front.

The Free Russian Army, which had fiercely attacked alongside the US Army as soon as the battle began, capturing the urban area of Smolensk and starting its advance towards Rzhev, was now struggling badly, making its initial propaganda-worthy victories seem like a distant memory.

“Damn it, what kind of defense line is this?!”

The Commander-in-Chief of the Free Russian Army, Andrey Vlasov, spat out his resentment.

Not only was there the threat of anti-tank ditches everywhere, but landmines were also detonating all over the place, disabling Sherman Tanks on the spot.

Waiting at the solid defense line, which the tanks couldn't easily breakthrough, were trenches equipped with numerous machine guns.

In that situation, with armored units composed of T-34s constantly striking their flank, the Free Russian Army had to suffer serious losses with every step they took toward Rzhev.

“Voroshilov and Budyonny, those old has-beens, couldn't possibly have this kind of capability! Who is the field commander?!”

“According to radio intercepts, it's Enrique Líster!”

“That damn 'Spaniard' bastard…”

Andrey Vlasov gritted his teeth.

To think that the Spanish foreigner whom Georgy Zhukov had coddled was now leading the charge to crush his unit.

In addition to the equipment provided by Germany during the Battle of Minsk, the Free Russian Army's equipment was sufficient, thanks to a great deal of support from America, including Shermans.

But most of them lacked training, and as men who had surrendered and switched sides, their morale was inevitably low.

There were more men who had surrendered just to survive than those who burned with a desire for revenge against the Soviet Union and the commies.

Just because they received ample equipment didn't suddenly turn them into an elite army. Unlike the German Army, which had torn apart the fortified defense line with shelling and bombing, the Free Russian Army, which lacked the capacity for such things, was just ramming its head against the Soviet defense line, taking nothing but casualties.

In the midst of it all, a staff officer ran up to him again.

“U-Urgent news!”

“What is it now?!”

“General Kaminski's unit was routed by an enemy counterattack, and the 3rd Division, which tried to counterattack, has been encircled and is under attack by an enemy armored unit! It's an enemy counterattack!”

“Damn it all!”

As America turned its attention to the Pacific, the Free Russian Army, whose position was already precarious, was under immense pressure to prove themselves here.

But in the end, they were only incurring losses on their own, so Vlasov, unable to bear it any longer, sent a radio message.

“General Patton, I need your help!”

Patton’s reply came quickly, but it wasn't what Vlasov had expected.

-What are you talking about? We're already pushing deep.

“The US Army has few troops! Even if the US Army pushes in alone, it will be difficult to expand on your gains!”

-Hah, I'll be the one to decide whether we can achieve military gains or not.

Over.

The radio cut off without mercy.

“Damn Yankee bastard…”

Vlasov, who had been glaring at the radio with a despondent face, had to hesitate for a long while.

After a long, nervous deliberation, Vlasov sent another radio message.

“…General Walter Model, please respond.”

As he waited anxiously, a familiar voice soon came through.

-Listening, Chairman.

Vlasov heaved a sigh so deep it felt like the ground would collapse.

But even as he hesitated, his subordinates were being sacrificed in real-time.

He had no choice.

“The Soviet resistance is strong, and we are struggling badly. Please support us.”

More than his crumbling pride, Vlasov was overcome by the concern of what to do if the arrogant German general refused.

But the answer that came over the radio was concise.

-Understood. We'll move out immediately.

Over.

Vlasov let out a sigh of relief, then bit his lip.

“…Tell them reinforcements will arrive soon, so just try to hold out a little longer.”

The French-Finnish Allied Forces were said to have crushed the Soviet Army Group North and were breaking through towards Rzhev.

The Free Ukrainian Army was moving to retake the entire Ukraine Theater after crossing the Dnieper River.

The German Army had seized victory in the Battle of Kursk against the Soviet main force.

This battle was clearly a great victory for the Allied Forces.

But the Free Russian Army, far from performing great feats, was in a position where they had to beg for the German Army's help.

Vlasov couldn't hide his bitter mood, but he had to do whatever he could.

And then, something occurred to him.

Its effectiveness was uncertain, but it was better to at least try.

-

April 10, 1942

Rzhev, Western Soviet Union – ‘Spaniard’ Army Corps Headquarters

Enrique Líster was frantically commanding his various units.

The front line was pandemonium.

“Marshal Budyonny's unit is being routed by the US armored unit! They request support!”

His mission: leave the enemy's main thrust to Voroshilov and Budyonny and inflict as much damage as possible on the Free Russian Army.

“We're barely holding our own line. Support is impossible.”

But the French-Finnish Allied Forces were pushing down east of Leningrad.

“Report from the 94th Division! They repelled the enemy, but their losses are too great to counterattack!”

The Free Ukrainian Army had broken through the Dnieper Riverbank.

“General! The 138th Division is!”

In Kursk, their allies were collapsing.

Inflict maximum damage on the Free Russian Army to reduce their political influence, and once the Allied offensive stalled to some degree, oust Stalin and negotiate an armistice.

According to their plan, even if they were defeated in this battle, they had to at least inflict some damage on the Allied Forces.

The operation had failed.

The enemy was crushing the Soviet Army with overwhelming numbers and quality.

His thoughts swirled, but Enrique Líster, almost mechanically, handled his units and relentlessly hammered the Free Russian Army.

The Polish Army was valiant, but they wouldn't reach Rzhev where he was stationed.

The American volunteer soldiers were a nuisance, but strangely, they avoided his unit and went about crushing only Budyonny's and Voroshilov's forces.

Right now, the only thing he could do was carry out his mission and inflict as much damage on the enemy as possible.

But what if the Soviet Union suffered a major defeat in this battle and lost even the capacity to resist?

Is there any meaning to what he was doing now?

As Líster, in his anxiety and impatience, was wholly focused on commanding, his adjutant, Lieutenant Kirill, called out to him.

“G-General?”

“What is it?”

“A report from the radio room. I think you need to hear this.”

Líster narrowed his eyes, but he soon rose from his seat and headed to the radio room.

And at the voice coming from the crackling static of the radio, his body went rigid.

-This is to the Soviet Army. This is Lieutenant Penenko Nikolayevich of the Free Russian Army.

Nikolayevich? He was alive?

-The unit you are currently engaged with is a unit of men who were abandoned by the Soviet Union and had no choice but to surrender. It is an army of Russians.

His former adjutant, who had surrendered in Poland and returned to the Soviet Union with him, only to be sent to a Penal Unit.

-The Soviet Union drove to their deaths those who fought to protect the Fatherland, were encircled, and had no choice but to surrender, yet still wanted to return and fight.

The low, somber voice of his former adjutant came over the radio.

-We have only risen up against Stalin's contradictory regime, which drives the people to their deaths while claiming to be for Russia.

We do not want to fight our compatriots. There is no meaning in this pointless fratricide.

Then, suddenly, his name was mentioned.

-…General Enrique Líster.

The Northern Front, Kursk, Ukraine… they have all collapsed. The war has been decided in a Soviet defeat, so why are you attacking the Free Russian Army?

Líster glanced over at the radio operators, who were staring at him blankly.

-What you are doing now is a massacre of your former subordinates, abandoned by you and the Fatherland, and an act of driving your current subordinates to a meaningless death. If you are listening, retreat and do not cause any more meaningless sacrifices.

Líster felt his mind go completely blank.

After a moment of silence, Nikolayevich continued.

-This is to the Soviet Army. This is Lieutenant Penenko Nikolayevich of the Free Russian Army.

Nikolayevich was repeating the broadcast.

Hoping his former superior officer was listening.

“…Comrade General.”

His new adjutant, Lieutenant Kirill, called to him, but Líster remained silent, covering his mouth with his hand.

He could feel the eyes of the radio operators.

…He could also see the political officer, who was sitting in the radio room for supervision, looking horrified.

In the silent space, only Nikolayevich's voice, coming from the radio, spread.

“…Comrade General.”

The political officer called to him.

Líster was fighting here for Communism, for which he had bet his life, his everything.

“Comrade General. Surely you're not being swayed by the words of such a reactionary…”

It was just a broadcast from the enemy who had already betrayed their country; all he had to do was ignore it and continue the offensive.

But the words wouldn't come.

Was he really fighting for Communism, for the Soviet Union?

Or was he fighting out of a stubborn desire to prove that his life had not been in vain, to ensure his own survival?

As his thoughts swirled, an urgent radio message came in.

-This is the 94th Division! The German Army has appeared! It's an enemy counterattack!

Almost simultaneously, reports began to flood in from divisions all over the area.

Líster's forces, which had been wearing down the Free Russian Army from a solid defense before launching a relentless counterattack, had been struck on the flank by the German Army.

“Report from the interception team! The enemy is Walter Model's armored corps!”

Walter Model again.

In Spain, and even in this distant foreign land.

Always, whenever he was losing his conviction about the meaning of the fight, that man would appear and stand in his way.

…Does that man fight with conviction?

Líster, naturally thinking of the politician that man must be following, bit his lip.

Finally breaking the long silence, Líster's mouth opened.

“Issue a retreat order to all units.”

His gaze was still nailed to the radio, from which Nikolayevich's voice was still emanating.

“…We're falling back to Rzhev.”