Chapter 774: Out of the Game

“Assemble the troops you can find and have them assemble behind the eastern defense line! Have the two marine battalions move together! Issue them with sufficient ammunition. Make the arrangements. I will personally lead the team.” After thinking it through, Khrushchev immediately stood up. After giving his orders and waiting for everyone to leave his room, he walked behind his desk and pulled open the large, horizontal drawer.

Inside was an exquisitely made box. After opening it, he saw a pistol with intricate carvings. It had been a reward from Stalin during the Great Purge, after Khrushchev had eliminated Yezhov. The pistol lay alone in its recess, next to a magazine and a row of bullets.

He took the magazine from its recess, then picked up a bullet from the box, clumsily stuffing it into the magazine. He repeated the action, picking up a second bullet and stuffing it in. Perhaps because it had been too long since he had handled a firearm, the bullet slipped from his fingertips and fell onto the solid wood desk with a clatter.

With a soft rolling sound, the bullet came to a stop by a stack of documents, resting against a file folder. Khrushchev gave a helpless, bitter smile, picked up the bullet, and put it back in the magazine. After a while, he had finally finished loading the magazine. He then took the pistol from the box and inserted the magazine into it.

After completing all this, he looked up and walked around his office, carefully looking at the map hanging on the wall, as well as the national flag and the portrait of Lenin. When he reached the center of the wall and saw a blank black space, he was taken aback for a moment. That was where Stalin’s portrait had once hung. It had been taken down after he arrived here, but the mark was still there.

Some things, even if taken down from a wall, their mark still remains, impossible to erase, like a shadow in one’s heart, always remembered when one doesn’t want to. Khrushchev stared at that mark for a long time, until someone knocked on the door and came in to remind him that everything was ready. Only then did he withdraw his gaze.

He turned around and followed his secretary and adjutant out of the room. He then looked at the commander of the Sevastopol defense system who was waiting for him outside the door, patted his shoulder, and said softly, “I will not be using this office again. I have left the key on the desk. I am leading a breakout towards Kerch. Whether it succeeds or not is no longer important. This place is now under your command.”

“Comrade Khrushchev! I am willing to follow you and break out with you! If you give the order, the entire army can break out with you. We can at least assemble a force of 50,000 men. If we fight to the death, I think it is still possible for you to reach Kerch,” the commander said, gripping Khrushchev’s hand firmly.

“That won’t be necessary, comrade commander. I have already assembled the elite marines. They will attack with me. I hope this attack will not be in vain. Let’s hope,” Khrushchev said, then turned and left, leaving the general standing there, stunned and speechless for a long moment.

“Attention!” On the position, some Soviet sailors in their striped shirts gripped their rifles tightly. Khrushchev, surrounded by a group of soldiers, came to the center of these marine officers and men. He looked at his men and said in a firm, loud voice, “I often give speeches, but today I don’t want to say much. I will personally lead everyone in a counter-attack against the German army. Let’s go.”

Clatter! All the soldiers raised their rifles again and gave Khrushchev a sharp salute. Then these soldiers all followed behind him, heading towards their forward positions.

The Roman-Kosh mountain was a difficult barrier for the German army to overcome, and it was also an insurmountable natural barrier for the Soviet defenders. The surrender of the Soviet defenders had given the Germans ample time to repair the defensive system on top. Coupled with the elite German grenadiers, the strength of this place had completely exceeded everyone’s imagination.

A German soldier, holding his rifle, watched the movements on the Soviet position. He soon spotted something, because one after another, the Soviets were jumping out of their own trenches and charging towards the high ground he controlled. There was no heaven-shaking roar of “Urrah!” as in the past. This attacking Soviet unit was silent, but their momentum was even more ferocious.

He quietly worked the bolt of his rifle, chambering a round. As a unit from the later expansion, most of the ordinary infantry under Manstein’s command were using the Mauser 98k rifle. Their firepower density could not match the high-low mix of the G43 and MP-44 of the main force, but they had the advantage in range and accuracy.

After this soldier had chambered a round, he aimed at a Soviet soldier opposite him, centered the sights on the man’s torso, and then pulled the trigger. Crack! A gunshot rang out. The bullet accurately hit the Red Army soldier opposite, and a spray of blood erupted from his body.

Crack! Not far from him, another German soldier also fired his rifle. Further in the distance, more German soldiers followed suit, firing their own rifles. A dense hail of bullets flew towards the charging Soviet troops, and in an instant, many Soviet soldiers were hit and fell.

The Soviet soldiers began to return fire with their rifles as they charged. Several Soviet soldiers pushed a wheeled Maxim heavy machine gun to the side of a rock that could be used as cover. They set up the machine gun and began to pour a frantic stream of bullets at the German position.

The battle quickly reached a fever pitch. The marines of the Soviet Red Army had a higher level of education, and their training was very thorough. They were a rare elite force in the Soviet army. These soldiers had a high combat quality and could quickly organize an attack, continuing to fight even in the face of astonishing casualties.

Of course, on the other side, the defenders on the German position were no rabble either. The troops under Manstein’s command had been tempered by the entire Crimean campaign. It could be said that they had become an elite force with very rich combat experience. They were not thrown into disarray by the ferocity of the Soviet attack. On the contrary, they were just getting warmed up.

Soon, a concealed MG 42 machine gun position opened up from a corner on the flank. Tracer rounds, along with a hail of bullets, swept across the entire Soviet attacking battle group from the side. The dense bullets cut through the Soviet soldiers like a saw, sometimes blowing off arms and severing entire legs.

This machine gun had suddenly joined the battle. Before the Soviet soldiers could react, they had suffered huge casualties. Then the German mortars began to join in this grand welcoming ceremony. One after another, black clouds of smoke rose from the midst of the Soviet troops. Everywhere were the mangled limbs and torsos blown into the air. The screams of the Soviet soldiers rose and fell, and the entire battlefield was like hell.

Khrushchev, supported by a guard, stumbled forward. The ground at his feet was already littered with the bodies of Red Army soldiers, so he could only struggle up the slope, one deep step, one shallow step. A bullet flew past him, and a soldier not far from his side was hit in the neck. Blood spurted out as he fell at Khrushchev’s feet, staining his trousers red.

“…” Khrushchev glanced at the soldier, who was still struggling with his eyes wide open, and for the first time, he knew just how bloody and cruel it was to attack an enemy position. His heart was filled with regret, with self-blame. Only now did he know what a cruel thing it was to stand in the rear and order the soldiers to continue attacking, regardless of the casualties. He felt uneasy about his own ignorance in the past. This immersive battlefield struggle made his body tremble involuntarily.

It was not fear, just a physiological phenomenon caused by the secretion of adrenaline. He raised his head and, disregarding everything, continued to walk forward. He knew he had to go forward. Only in this way would his life be complete. No matter what, he, Khrushchev, could not retreat. No matter what, he had to be responsible for his own life.

Crack! A bullet hit the guard who was supporting Khrushchev. It pierced his chest, and blood splattered all over Khrushchev’s face. The guard fell unwillingly. Because he was holding Khrushchev’s arm, he also pulled Khrushchev off balance.

Crack! Just as Khrushchev was struggling to get up, a bullet hit him in the thigh. A searing pain instantly shot through his brain. Now he had no capital to continue walking forward. He could only sway for a moment and sit down beside the body of his guard.

The gunfire gradually thinned. The number of charging Soviet soldiers was decreasing. This attack had not been a large-scale one to begin with, and the German army opposite had not even requested a larger-scale artillery support. They did not know that a big shot was in the enemy’s attack, nor did they give any special treatment to the former big shot of the Soviet Union.

Khrushchev sat leaning against the corpse, raised his pistol, and looked up. He couldn’t even see the German soldiers returning fire from the trenches. He just blindly pulled the trigger in the direction of the Germans, one shot after another.

In the end, he had emptied the bullets in his pistol, but he still kept pulling the trigger, letting the gun make a clicking sound. He just repeated his action, watching the Soviet soldiers who were charging forward with their backs to him fall under the German bullets.

Crack! A bullet from somewhere hit Khrushchev in the right side of his chest. He cried out, his mouth wide open, and blood flowed from his mouth and the wound. In that instant, he suddenly remembered Yezhov, who had fallen in a pool of blood. He finally knew what it felt like at that time.

On February 17, 1939, Khrushchev died in battle. Sevastopol surrendered one day later.

Advance chapters at Nightjar Reads · nightjarreads.com