Chapter 1121: A Pipe Dream

At this very moment in Moscow, the grenadiers of the German vanguard were observing a small, unnamed square in the distance through the gaps in the ruins and collapsed walls. This was their objective for this attack. It was only a few blocks away from the historically famous Vegachi Cinema.

If Akado knew that this small square, which soldiers from both sides were fighting to the death over, was actually the location of the famous World Peace Monument of later generations, he would definitely be satisfied with his achievements in this life. His troops were wantonly opening fire at the location of the future peace monument, pouring bullets into the very people who would (in another time) erect it.

And the Vegachi Cinema next to this monument had quite the background. During the honeymoon period of Soviet-German relations, this cinema was a key project of German aid to the Soviet Union. The engineers and officers from the secret military bases established near Moscow at the time had almost all been to this most modern cinema in the Soviet Union.

Even Akado, during his third secret visit to the Soviet Union, had watched a movie here with the high-level Soviet leaders who held power at the time. But time had rushed by, and now so much had changed. All that remained were nostalgic memories. And this cinema, which carried the memories of the two nations’ honeymoon period, was now a shadow of its former self.

Ten years was enough time to make any equipment obsolete, and enough to turn a modern cinema into a dusty, backward, dilapidated building. Because of the Great Purge and other chaotic movements, the funding allocated by the Soviet Union for entertainment facilities had dwindled and dwindled, to the point where it couldn’t even maintain the cinema’s normal operations.

Thus, this once-luxurious cinema had finally become an old, deserted house, with only a pitiful old man watching over it. By the time the Germans returned, they were in tanks and carrying rifles. This attire clearly didn’t require an admission fee.

At this time, because the cinema had been designed and built by German engineers, it had not been destroyed by the shockwaves of the artillery. Other than the mottled scars all over its outer walls, the interior was surprisingly intact, save for the dust. And now, it was a Soviet field hospital, filled with lightly wounded soldiers who could still move.

Shells fell around the square from time to time. The sound was still clear inside the cinema, and the vibrations caused dust to fall from the ceiling. The old man responsible for the cinema sat expressionlessly on a dilapidated sofa near the entrance. He had lived here for ten full years and really didn’t want to leave this familiar place.

“Aah! Aah!” The cries of an unknown wounded soldier echoed in the hall. Medical conditions here were extremely limited, so most people were just given simple bandages and then arranged here to wait for medicine. Because of the lack of crucial anti-infection drugs, wounded soldiers died in agony here every day.

The miserable cries rose and fell. As time dragged on, cases of worsening conditions going untreated were everywhere. The air was thick with the stench of decay and despair. Every day, nurses shuttled through the crowd, having the slightly better-off wounded carry soldiers who had quietly breathed their last out of the cinema on blood-soaked stretchers to be disposed of.

God knows how many people had already died here. The old man held a cup of hot water with a steady hand, watching everything with a listless gaze. The German soldiers were attacking fiercely just a few streets away. If nothing unexpected happened, this place would also become new German territory within a few days. He looked up at the giant five-pointed star on the ceiling, an indescribable feeling of desolation in his heart.

In a building on Lomonosov Avenue, north of the cinema, Vatutin’s command post was in chaos. German armored forces were attacking frantically on the flanks of the 82nd Infantry Corps, which had broken into the city, putting his defense line in danger of a total collapse.

“Comrade General! The Ring Road defense line can’t hold on any longer. Our defensive system near Marino has already collapsed. If we keep trying to hold the outer line, all our troops in the northwestern corner are in danger of being overrun!” A staff officer looked at the map, compared it with the latest reports, and said with a frown, “The German armored forces are using the Ring Road to open up positions on the flanks. Our troops are suffering heavy losses.”

Vatutin was also at his wits’ end. He hadn’t expected the Germans to be so familiar with urban warfare, familiar to the point of routing the Soviet defenders. In truth, he should have expected this result. After all, when the Germans finished their urban battles, they carried their experience with them. But when the Soviets finished their urban battles, their experienced men were all dead on the battlefield.

In reality, there aren’t many armies in the world that are “good” at urban warfare. It can only be said to be a tactic for the weaker side to delay the stronger, not some magic weapon for victory. If one has absolute reserves, then an urban battle might become a turning point in the war, like Stalingrad in another timeline. But without strong reserves, urban warfare is nothing more than a dying struggle.

Vatutin was now doing everything he could to put up that dying struggle. His troops had no way to counter-attack, so they could only hole up in the city and fight a war of attrition with the Germans. As for who was losing more… only God knew. After all, if he refused this attrition and rushed out to fight the Germans on the open plains, his troops would be annihilated even faster.

“Send in the reserves. After all, if the Ring Road line is lost, we will have completely lost our outer defenses.” The Soviet commander of Moscow’s city defense clasped his hands behind his back and gave the order to commit new combat units in a low, slightly hoarse voice. There weren’t many reserves left in Moscow. Vatutin was doing this as a last resort.

While Vatutin was fighting his desperate, dead-end battle, Stalin wasn’t comfortable in his underground bunker either. He was, on one hand, frequently sending his confidants to confirm if the army was still under his control, and on the other, sending out countless useless telegrams to mobilize troops and officials who no longer listened to his commands.

“Send a telegram to Roosevelt! Tell him, if the United States loses the Persian Gulf, then we might lose the entire Indian Ocean… He must hold Saudi Arabia. He must hold it!” Stalin squinted his eyes, studying the world map. He had no solution for the Germans around Moscow, yet he was still worrying about the distant situation in the Middle East.

“A report from the Far East mentioned that the Americans have already cut off military aid to the Far East… If you send a telegram to Roosevelt at this time, they might…” an advisor-like subordinate stood by Stalin, pleading bitterly in a low voice: “They might not pay any attention to us at all.”

“Cut it off? Good! Excellent that they cut it off!” Stalin, as if he hadn’t heard the “won’t pay any attention” part, banged on the table and cheered, “With the supplies cut off from that group of oppositionists, I’d like to see what they use to resist me!”

Before anyone around him could react, he changed his tone again, as if he had been deep in thought and finally made a decision: “If possible, have the central region overcome some difficulties and support the Chinese theater with some arms… bullets, heavy weapons, it doesn’t matter, just give them something… After the war, the world’s structure might be completely different. We should deploy some of our own forces in advance.”

In short, Stalin at this moment seemed to be putting on a performance, one that even he wasn’t sure was real or an illusion. Perhaps he was dreaming of himself in another timeline, dreaming of that era belonging to their “Big Three.” Unfortunately, reality was far crueler than his fantasy. A few kilometers away, the raging battlefield was already the Soviet Union’s western border.

“Call General Vatutin. Have him confirm with Marshal Zhukov the troop movements for reinforcing Moscow. We will report the troop deployment news when Comrade Stalin’s mood has stabilized.” A Soviet general, leaning against the door outside, ordered his aides, “If we go in now to report that the Ring Road line has fallen, he might just shoot us.”

Wiping the cold sweat from their foreheads, these officers nodded. They clearly agreed with their superior’s view, wanting to hold off on reporting the fall of the Ring Road line until a better time. They quickly retreated to the end of the corridor and, under the bewildered gaze of the soldiers on guard at the stairs, scurried away as if fleeing from the bunker deep beneath the Kremlin.

But Stalin, in his room, still didn’t know the Germans were even closer. He was still immersed in his own fantasy, imagining he would end the war as a victor, and that he and his country would then control the entire world, becoming the most powerful force on earth.

“Akado! You can’t defeat me! I am invincible! I am Stalin! I will be the one to win! I will turn the entire tide of the war at the gates of Moscow! I will!” He pounded the desk in his office, his voice carrying far, far away. As he roared, he didn’t notice the expressions on the faces of the attendants and officers around him. They all wore the expression of someone watching a clown. No one believed Stalin’s words anymore—at least in this room, no one believed that the Soviet Union, under Stalin’s hand, would turn the tide and achieve final victory.

Maybe some still believed. Zhukov? Vatutin? Who knew… The battle for Moscow continued, as if it would go on until the end of time.

Advance chapters at Nightjar Reads · nightjarreads.com