Chapter 1133: Wanting to Give vs. Wanting to Have

In a foxhole behind a wheat field, two German soldiers were enjoying a rare meal of canned beef and delicious black bread. This fine food held an inexplicable appeal for the front-line soldiers. The ever-improving rations made more and more of them genuinely feel that the war was nearing its end.

The two spoke in low voices about various topics, eating and discussing what they wanted to do after the war was over. They had placed their gas mask canisters in a corner of the dugout, where their two backpacks, entrenching tools, and neatly bundled tents were also piled.

The younger soldier, leaning against the wall of the foxhole, peered through a gap, observing the distant Soviet positions. After all, they weren’t far from the Soviet-controlled zone. But for some peculiar reason, the time they had spent here without a battle had been remarkably long.

It had been fifteen days since Army Group N had advanced to this position and been ordered to hold. Everyone was enjoying a rare period of peace, the likes of which they hadn’t seen since the war began. Troops could be rotated to the rear for rest, and some soldiers even got the rare, sought-after chance to go home on leave.

After a quick look, the young soldier pulled his head back. “There are no decent defenders over there. If we pushed forward, we could probably advance 100 kilometers in just a few days.”

The older soldier was busy dealing with a piece of beef in his can that wasn’t very tender. He poked at it with his folding fork, finally gave up, and poured the gravy from the can onto his black bread. The potato chunks inside, warm and faintly fragrant, tumbled out with it.

He took a bite of the bread and said indistinctly, “You don’t know shit. This situation right here is perfect. Before you were assigned to the squad, we were at St. Rudolph—oh, that’s what they call Stalingrad—and that was a brutal fight. We have it so good now, you should just count your blessings. If we were still at St. Rudolph, you’d probably be dead already.”

“Hey! I’m just saying, I’ve only been at the front for a short time. Can you tell me the story of the Battle of St. Rudolph? I really want to hear about how our unit fought bravely at the front.” The young soldier’s interest was clearly piqued when he heard the name.

“St. Rudolph?” As if recalling something painful, the veteran took a bite of bread, then murmured with a grim expression, “What do you want to hear? We have no memories from that place to tell you. What do you imagine it was like? My only impression of it is ruins, dilapidated streets, and the constant sound of gunfire and enemy snipers.”

“There were landmines everywhere; you had to be so careful where you stepped. Me and Gelf were crossing this damn street—only ten meters wide, and we were being cautious. But when I made it to the wall on the other side and leaned against it to catch my breath, I looked back and Gelf was just… lying in the middle of the street.” The veteran’s voice choked up. He touched his cheek and glanced at the rookie, who now clearly regretted asking.

He paused, then continued, “I shouted his name, but he didn’t move. I thought he was joking, just trying to scare me. When I tried to go back for him, the guys behind me held me back.”

He paused again, then asked a question, “You know what they said to me? They said, ‘Your pants are covered in blood.’ Only then did I see… Gelf’s blood had splattered all over my ass. Dammit, those were my last clean pants. You know? My last clean pair.”

After saying this, the veteran gave a bitter laugh and patted the embarrassed rookie’s shoulder. “If you’d seen your comrade’s head blown apart… spent every day huddled in rubble and ruins, too scared to close your eyes at night in case the enemy snuck up and strangled you… had to just spray your gun wildly every few hours and kill a few enemies… watched through your sights as your bullets knocked out someone’s front teeth… then you’d know. Not going to St. Rudolph is probably the luckiest thing that’s ever happened to you in your whole life.”

No one who had been through the Battle of St. Rudolph wanted to talk about the bloody fight. They preferred to bury everything they experienced deep in their hearts. You have to understand, the Ukrainian units that took the heaviest losses had casualty rates as high as “not one in ten surviving.” The bodies buried in the ruins of the streets and alleys still haven’t been cleared. Just a few days ago, a civilian was killed by a landmine hidden in the rubble.

It was a terrifying battle. Humanity and civilization had long since fled that dreadful place. On the endless battlefield, only a beast-like, savage force ruled everything. Humans relied on strength and ferocity to decide who had the right to live, and used cunning and cruelty to distinguish the experienced and veteran…

Just as the veteran was lost in memories of the most terrifying battle he had ever experienced, an officer, accompanied by a platoon leader, walked over along a nearby ridge. They came to the foxhole and, looking at the two soldiers on duty, the lead officer gave an order: “In a little while, a Soviet convoy will be driving over. Their bumpers will all have white flags; they’ll be easy to distinguish. Do not fire on these targets. Let them pass through here. Let them safely reach the checkpoint at the intersection behind you. Understood?”

“Sir? The Soviets have surrendered?” The veteran looked at the officer from the rear with a face full of surprise, his voice excited. This was incredibly important to him. If the Soviets surrendered, it meant the war was over. And if the war was over, for all Germans, it meant the good life was about to begin.

“No, don’t celebrate too early.” The officer smiled, revealing a set of white teeth. He wore quite a few medals, and the Knight’s Cross at his neck was particularly conspicuous. “To be accurate, only a part of the Soviets are preparing to surrender. And just preparing, that’s all.”

“That’s still great news,” the veteran beamed, the lines on his face creasing like a blooming flower.

“Of course. It’s definitely good news.” The officer clasped his hands behind his back and continued along the ridge. Further on, there was a sniper’s observation post and another foxhole manned by three infantrymen. They had to notify the soldiers over there, too, and bring this good news to these men who hadn’t been home to see their families in months.

You could tell from the faint cheers just how uplifting this news was for the soldiers. As the officer and platoon leader walked back, some soldiers poked their heads out of their foxholes and raised their right arms. They used the Greater German salute to express their joy and their gratitude to the officers for bringing the good news.

Half an hour later, a military vehicle painted in Soviet olive-green drove over from the opposite side, following the dirt road. Behind it were several other vehicles. All of them had their red stars painted over, and conspicuous white flags were attached to their fronts. The vehicles drove cautiously, as if terrified the Germans opposite might suddenly open fire. However, the people in the vehicles soon discovered their worries were unnecessary. Many German soldiers were sitting in the open, holding their weapons, curiously sizing up these “surrenderers” who had come from so far.

Inside the lurching vehicles, nervous Soviet guards kept their hands on the pistols at their waists. These were the only weapons they carried. Compared to the German soldiers cradling MP-44 assault rifles, G43 semi-automatic rifles, and Mauser 98Ks, they seemed pitifully under-equipped. But they were only escorting the “diplomatic mission” to negotiate with the Germans, so they couldn’t carry heavier arms.

Inside these military vehicles were the “bigwigs” from Chelyabinsk. These men did not represent the familiar Soviet Union, but rather a brand new country—the Siberian Federation. They had come to sign a peace treaty with the Third Reich and establish ambassador-level diplomatic relations.

“As long as we agree to the German Führer’s demands, declare independence, join the Axis, concede some interests, and open up the railway line to the Far East, we can achieve self-government in our current territory.” A former Soviet diplomat was clearly full of confidence about this peace mission. “Germany will guarantee our safety. Stalin’s reign of terror is about to become a thing of the past.”

“I’d advise you not to be too optimistic. From what I know, that German Führer is extremely greedy and equally brutal.” In the same vehicle, an older politician, who was feeling ill from the lurching, threw cold water on his colleague’s optimism, as if doing so would make him feel better. “We don’t have that much to concede. I don’t know if it will be enough to trade for a final peace.”

For this newly established “Siberian Federation,” their military inferiority and diplomatic concessions were not strong bargaining chips in the face of the powerful Third Reich. On the way here, the things they had discussed most were more “colonial” topics, like mineral rights and railway rights. These topics had already caused the atmosphere in the vehicle to drop to rock bottom.

“Alright, gentlemen!” A well-dressed, middle-aged man, who was their leader, finally spoke up. “In truth, aside from establishing our country and exercising our sovereignty, we shouldn’t be too stubborn about the rest. To put it bluntly, even if it’s something we want to give, it’s not certain the Germans will want to have it!”

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