Chapter 1100: Rejection of Transfer Order

This world is filled with all sorts of inequalities. Some people agonize over which luxury car to drive to pick up girls tomorrow, while others can only choose the color of their bus pass holder… While some worry about whether their son can inherit their grand vision, others worry about whether they can even survive until tomorrow.

Just as Akado and Mercedes were worrying about their son, Stalin was sitting in his office in the Kremlin, so disturbed by the incessant sound of exploding shells that he couldn’t process the documents in his hand. He frowned, tossed aside a report on Moscow’s food rations for the last two days, and rang the bell on his desk to summon his new attendant.

“Get me a cup of hot water.” He rubbed his dry eyes, picked up his pipe, and struck a match to prepare for a smoke. The sound of artillery in the distance showed no sign of stopping.

Zhukov, leading his troops north, had not succeeded in relieving the pressure around Moscow. On the contrary, the Zhukov group’s rash northward advance had directly led to the collapse of the defensive system in the region south of Moscow. Just as with Leningrad and Murmansk, the strained redeployment of forces had led to a large number of troops being annihilated by the German army in a war of movement.

Everyone knew that the German army excelled at wars of movement, and was especially adept at concentrating its superior armored forces to break through enemy lines in local sectors, and then carrying out large-scale flanking and encircling maneuvers. But when faced with one important town after another being besieged, the Soviet army was inevitably drawn out into the open for various reasons, only to be annihilated by the superior German forces.

The flashes of light outside the window, from time to time, silhouetted the buildings in the distance. The unique Russian architectural style was exceptionally distinct; the pointed domes looked magnificent under the illumination of the firelight. Unfortunately, Stalin was in no mood to admire this beautiful scenery, because those flashes of light came from the shells that could take his life at any moment.

“Great leader, Comrade Stalin… Comrade Marshal Zhukov is here to see you.” The attendant placed the water glass on Stalin’s desk, his head bowed as he reported Zhukov’s arrival. By rights, Zhukov was now the nominal Deputy Supreme Commander of the Soviet armed forces, responsible for the combat operations in the defense sector south of Moscow. His headquarters was not close to the Kremlin; for him to come so late was indeed somewhat abrupt.

“I’m not seeing him!” Stalin waved his hand, dismissing his attendant. He knew what Zhukov wanted to talk to him about, so he was unwilling to see this subordinate, who was absolutely loyal to him. For the past few days, every time they had met, they would bring up a topic, a topic that tormented Stalin.

Zhukov, having returned from the front to the Kremlin, would, whenever he was alone with Stalin, try to persuade him to seek peace with Germany. He had even suggested that Stalin cede territory and pay huge reparations to try and achieve a permanent peace with Germany.

But this proposal had been easily rejected by Stalin, because Stalin personally would never tolerate a humiliating peace treaty. He would rather die in battle in Moscow, and then let the entire Soviet Union be buried with him, than to live a wretched life and to be judged by posterity as a coward.

Zhukov’s idea was actually very persuasive. If the two sides could make peace now, then at least Stalin could regain control of the power that was collapsing in the country. And as long as the domestic situation was stabilized, at least their own power and safety could be guaranteed.

Moreover, negotiations were sometimes also a delaying tactic. The two sides could even probe each other’s bottom lines. Negotiations, after all, were just a form of haggling, of mutual compromise. As long as there was compromise, there would be concessions. To make the German army spit out some of the occupied territories they didn’t want, could also be considered a way to regain some face, right?

Besides, as long as they could, by hook or by crook, drag the war into the winter, then Moscow would become a hell for the German army. Even if the means of delaying was negotiation, there was nothing wrong with it. If they could buy time without sacrificing the lives of their soldiers, without having to fill the pits with their main forces, why not do it?

So, for Zhukov, negotiations were truly a good remedy that could, on the one hand, stabilize the situation and preserve their power, and on the other, buy them time. But the order for negotiations had to come from Stalin, and Stalin, right now, was unwilling to bear this eternal infamy.

Just as Stalin’s mind was preoccupied with this peace plan of Zhukov’s, the attendant once again entered his office. He stood respectfully in front of Stalin and, in a low voice, reported again, “Marshal Zhukov has not left. He says there has been a new development in the Far East. That is why he has rushed here to see you, Leader.”

“The Far East? What could happen in the Far East?” Stalin instinctively sensed a trace of foreboding, but in the end, he could not resist his own curiosity. He gave the order to his attendant, “Let Comrade Zhukov in! I want to hear his report. Dismiss everyone. I don’t want anyone to hear what we are talking about.”

“Yes! Comrade Stalin! I will go and get Comrade Marshal Zhukov right away.” The attendant quickly withdrew. As he was leaving, he also helped to close Stalin’s door. The sound of the cannons outside seemed to have quieted a little. After all, the German gunners also needed to rest, didn’t they?

When Zhukov, his face weary, walked into Stalin’s office, it was already past three in the morning. He was wearing an ordinary Soviet Red Army uniform, and he looked no different from any of the division or corps commanders. This Deputy Supreme Commander of the Red Army hung his hat on the hook by the door before he walked to Stalin’s front.

“Great leader, Comrade Stalin! I have just received a telegram. It is from Comrade Chuikov.” Zhukov, his voice tinged with a hint of resignation and despair, placed the telegram in his hand on Stalin’s desk. “I am sorry to say, the Far East Group has refused our request to continue to transfer their troops.”

Chuikov had originally been on the verge of completely crushing the Japanese forces under Ishihara Kanji in the Far East. But because of Stalin’s repeated transfer of troops, the Far East front had also now reached a stalemate. Chuikov, with his ever-dwindling forces, was struggling. There were already signs that Ishihara Kanji was about to turn the tables.

So some of the politicians and military officers in the Far East, after hearing Moscow’s request to once again transfer 100,000 Far Eastern troops to support the Battle of Moscow, had finally, with the breaking of the terror, had their dissatisfaction explode. Chuikov was in an impossible position. At the urging of his subordinates, he had refused Stalin’s request, and had even omitted any polite wording. Do they really think the Japanese elite in front of us are a soft target? These Japanese are not easy to deal with, okay?

Stalin picked up the telegram and began to read it, one word, one sentence at a time: Comrade Stalin, the Far East has no more troops to transfer. If you had not made one mistake after another, then the Far Eastern troops you would have on hand now would be at least over 500,000, more than the number of Far Eastern troops in our Far East theater.

To put it nicely, this telegram was a blatant slap in the face. To put it more bluntly, it was, through and through, pointing at Stalin’s nose and cursing him out. Sure enough, after reading this telegram, Stalin’s face went from white to red, and from red to black. In the end, after a brief silence, he exploded in a hysterical roar.

“They dare to disobey Moscow’s transfer order! Chuikov dares to criticize me? I should have all these bastards who have betrayed me hanged! Have all their relatives sent to Siberia to build railways!” Stalin roared, grabbing the piece of paper and pounding it on the desk in front of him.

Zhukov was already used to this kind of hysteria. In the various operational meetings of the past few days, he had seen Stalin in this state, with this expression, venting, almost every time. Because he was used to it, he also had his own way of dealing with it. And so he waited, without a word, for Stalin to cool down on his own.

Sure enough, after about a few minutes, Stalin finally stopped. He looked up at the silent Zhukov, the bushy mustache on his lips trembling slightly. Zhukov knew it was his turn to continue his report, and so he began to provoke Stalin again. “The Far East, not only did they refuse our request to transfer troops, they have also seized all the American-aid weapons and ammunition… We are, at this point, one might say, surrounded.”

Why, in war, do both sides try so hard to encircle their opponent? On the one hand, an encirclement can capture more prisoners and annihilate the opponent’s troops. And on the other hand, it is to, before capturing the prisoners and annihilating the enemy, gain a logistical supply advantage on the battlefield. Why are the encircled troops at a disadvantage? Because they cannot get supplies and support from the rear.

Unable to get food, unable to get ammunition, their fuel supply cut off, surrounded on all sides by the enemy—these are the problems one has to face after being surrounded. And the current Moscow, it seemed, could truly be said to be completely surrounded. The ones who were surrounding it were not just the German army in front, but also the “friendly” forces behind.

The munitions, manpower, and grain produced by the great rear areas of Chelyabinsk and the Far East would no longer be sent to Moscow. And on three sides of Moscow were already the German positions. So, in essence, Moscow was now an isolated, besieged city.

“These bastards! I haven’t even been surrounded by the Germans yet! And I’ve already been sold out by these bastards!” Stalin roared in a rage. Zhukov tactfully shut his mouth and continued his new round of helpless waiting. He waited until Stalin had stopped on his own, and only then did this Soviet marshal continue to suggest, “Comrade Stalin, at a time like this, we should consider the matter of making peace with the Germans. We need too, too much time to clean up those fickle traitors behind us.”

Advance chapters at Nightjar Reads · nightjarreads.com