Chapter 1075: Do We Throw Stones?

“So, are we under arrest now?” The old man’s face showed a hint of ridicule. He asked the officer who had entered, a smile in his voice, “You can start making arrests now, but who knows, some people might resist.”

The officer burst out laughing, walked over to the old man, and said, “What kind of joke is that? I brought my men to strengthen the guard here. After all, we can’t be sure if Moscow will send some real assassins to kill you, the true heroes of Russia’s revival.”

The old man finally couldn’t help but laugh as well, his face brimming with triumph. In this moment, he could finally confirm that he was free from Moscow’s control. At least here, in Chelyabinsk, he now held absolute power. This power had not come easily. He had endured for many years, only to seize this moment, with Stalin so weakened, to begin his own rise.

“Those 50,000 troops transferred from Siberia and the Far East—are they under our control now?” The old man looked at a military liaison officer behind him and asked about the other important item on the day’s agenda.

The liaison officer was clearly confident about this matter and quickly replied, “The commanders of those units are obviously smart men. They also know that if they rush to Moscow, they probably won’t ever return to their hometowns. So they’ve heeded our advice and are moving very slowly.”

He pointed to a large map on the wall, gesturing to a general location far to the east of Moscow, and said with a smile, “We probably can’t make them attack Moscow, but we are absolutely confident we can make them wait and see for two months.”

The old man at the head of the group then turned his gaze to “Vasilevsky.” This confidant, or rather, this like-minded assistant, understood his every thought. Their rapport was nothing short of perfect—which was the main reason for Vasilevsky’s meteoric rise in Chelyabinsk.

Without even thinking, Vasilevsky immediately replied, “The 60 Stalin tanks and 120 T-34 tanks produced by the factory this week have all been impounded by us under various pretexts. These armaments will become our bargaining chips in the future. There will be no mistakes.”

As Germany’s super-spy within the Soviet Union, as a man who was now openly opposing Stalin, the resources he controlled were far greater than they appeared. Through his efforts, Chelyabinsk’s production capacity had been kept at a low level. And with the mountains of raw materials, and the production speed wasted due to “process losses”—to put it bluntly, he alone had cost the Soviet Union at least 500 tanks, probably more.

This was the role of a spy. When the forces of both sides were equal, these spies on the hidden front, who seemed far less glamorous than the generals and aces, were the key that could ultimately decide the outcome of the war.

What was even more fatal was not that “Vasilevsky” had delayed the production of at least 500 Soviet tanks, but that he had used his personal ability and influence to sway the position of the entire Chelyabinsk industrial region. They had chosen to defect when Stalin needed support the most. They had chosen to sit on the sidelines when the Soviet Union needed industrial power the most.

“Including the 400 tanks of various models and self-propelled anti-tank guns that we’ve been withholding, we now have enough to form an armored division. As it happens, a new division we were ordered to conscript is currently training in the suburbs. Their loyalty is not an issue. Why don’t we form a unit of our own?” the old man said, looking at his confidants.

BOOM! The German shelling of the Moscow sector had not stopped at all. A shell flowered on a Soviet position, kicking up a sky-blotting cloud of black smoke. On the Moscow frontline, which was pocked with craters, a Soviet officer squinted and slapped the dirt from his helmet.

A dark mass of German soldiers, under the cover of assault guns, was slowly approaching the Soviet positions. They set up machine guns in nearby shell craters to provide cover, cautiously stepping over the bodies of Red Army soldiers and Wehrmacht soldiers, pushing relentlessly toward a small hill that had been almost completely flattened by shellfire.

“Keep your heads down! Spread out! Once you’re in the trench, clear any threats immediately. Keep moving, it’s the only way to stay alive. Nerves are your worst enemy!” Behind a smoke grenade, a German officer repeatedly reminded his new replacements. These soldiers were from Belgium and France, part of Germany’s foreign legion.

These soldiers had all been recruited by the Waffen-SS. They did not take up the conscription quotas of the regular Wehrmacht, but they could make up for many of its recruitment shortcomings. Because they were not subordinate to the German Ministry of Defense or the General Staff, the SS had more options when recruiting.

Through incitement and persuasion, the SS had recruited a number of qualified new soldiers in the occupied territories of France, as well as Belgium, the Netherlands, and Luxembourg. The furthest recruitment detachment had even found 1,000 volunteers in Spain. These soldiers all hated the Soviet Union and were willing to fight for a strong and unified Greater Europe. They were given simple weapons, slapped with the title of “SS Freiwilligen Division” (Volunteer Division), and sent to the front.

Countless soldiers, under the cover of German tanks, entered the effective range of the Soviet army. Soon, a few hidden Soviet heavy machine guns began to roar. Some of the exposed Germans were hit, and shouts for medics rang out everywhere. These German SS soldiers leaped into the shattered trenches and began to fight the Soviet soldiers who were pouring out from all directions for control of this narrow position.

The Soviet officer who had just been slapping his helmet was now frowning and looking at his left flank. The area was filled with the shouts of German soldiers, and he could see the German swastika flag waving back and forth on the highest point of the position. His face turned deathly pale, because he knew that this high ground he was defending was only 13,400 meters from Moscow.

Yes, meters! He could not retreat a single step, because he knew that if he retreated here, the German army would be even closer to Moscow. He touched the empty French cigarette pack in his breast pocket. His lips were white from being pressed together so tightly.

He had once shared a cigarette with the captain of the great Soviet leader Comrade Stalin’s personal guard, Zaitsev. He had seen the look of appreciation in the other’s eyes. So he had decided, this time, that he would not retreat, even in death. This was his faith as a Soviet soldier. And so, he ignored his collapsing left flank and ordered his troops to continue to hold their positions, which were now exposed on all sides.

“Have Comrade Pugadov take a machine gun and try to hold the left flank. Moscow is at our backs, we can’t retreat anymore! Everyone must have the resolve of a Soviet soldier, to shed their last drop of blood for Comrade Stalin!” he shouted, giving the order to continue to hold. As he spoke, the German troops on his direct front, under the cover of assault guns, were already pouring into his first line of outer trenches.

About 5 kilometers behind this Soviet officer, in a secret underground shelter, Zhukov and Vatutin, now the highest Soviet commanders at the front, were inspecting their defensive positions. The sound of artillery in the distance was a dense, indistinguishable rumble, but the two of them were still receiving some not-so-good news from the front commander who was accompanying them.

“Comrade Marshal Zhukov, Comrade General Vatutin, our troops lack heavy anti-tank weapons. To deal with the German tanks, our soldiers have paid with countless precious lives,” this general said, helplessly stating the heavy losses his troops had suffered in recent days. “In three days, I have received 1,400 replacement soldiers, but my unit has lost a full 3,900 men.”

Vatutin, having nothing to support the frontline generals with, had no choice but to join in the lament. In truth, he had his own difficulties. The industrial bases in the rear were treating Moscow with less and less importance. “The heavy weapons from Chelyabinsk were cut off two weeks ago. The equipment shipped from other places has also been intercepted by the rear under various pretexts…”

“Comrade Vatutin,” Zhukov said, looking at the map. He finally pointed to the defense line in front, which had already been shattered by the German troops, and said to his colleague, “You should have your troops pull back from there. They are just dying there for no reason.”

Vatutin gave a bitter smile, then walked to the front of the map. His gaze shifted from the marker that indicated a distance of 13 kilometers, and he said to Zhukov, “Comrade Marshal, you know as well as I do that we have no more room to retreat. Comrade Stalin gave the death order 20 days ago: all troops are forbidden to retreat a single step.”

When Zhukov had entered the room, the first thing he had looked at was the supply acceptance statistics report. He knew that these troops, which on paper still had great potential in numbers, were in fact just one empty shell after another. They did not have enough ammunition, and in many cases, they had not received timely resupply. To have been able to hold on until this moment was already the result of the grassroots soldiers sacrificing themselves for their country.

And so he looked at Vatutin, pointed at the defensive positions that had been covered by German artillery fire and were hard to make out, and demanded, “Look! Look at that! The men defending there are all soldiers who truly love this country! They are using their own lives to fight against the German steel! What do you want them to use to hold their positions? To throw stones at the King Tigers?”

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