Chapter 885: Replacements

In the Soviet command post, Rokossovsky listened to the gradually subsiding German artillery fire, gave a bitter smile, and poured himself a glass of vodka. Only he himself knew the bitterness he was feeling now. In his eyes, the Battle of Stalingrad had already come to a close with Küchler’s counter-attack.

An old method is not necessarily a backward one. Otherwise, there wouldn’t be so many people studying Sun Tzu’s Art of War, an ancient classic from over two thousand years ago. The facts have proven that the things Sun Tzu studied and summarized two thousand five hundred years ago are still worth repeatedly pondering even in the twenty-first century.

So, it was perfectly normal to learn some clumsy but effective methods from an obstinate old man from the Manchu Qing government, Zeng Guofan, methods that suited the German army’s current situation. Zeng Guofan’s maxim, “build strong fortifications and fight a stubborn battle,” had rendered any surprise attacks or infiltrations futile. The chaotic street fighting had become orderly, which had stripped urban warfare of more than half of its original power.

Küchler had taken the street fighting that the German army was not fully adapted to, had given it a facelift, and had developed it into a form of positional warfare, similar to trench warfare—a game the Germans had played with the French for a full four years in the last war. They could be considered experts among experts. It was precisely because of this change in the nature of the battlefield that the German army, while reducing its own losses, felt like a fish back in water.

On a temporary platform near the Stalingrad West Station, a German train slowly pulled to a stop. From the clean and tidy carriages, neatly dressed Ukrainian soldiers emerged. These were new recruits who had just been conscripted from within Ukraine. After a brief period of training, they had been sent to the cruelest battlefield in the world.

These Ukrainian soldiers, wearing steel helmets and black SS uniforms, had just gotten off the train when they saw the platform piled high with wounded Ukrainians. These wounded soldiers were all wrapped in thick bandages and were letting out heart-rending screams as they waited to board the train.

After all, not everyone was lucky enough to receive a high-grade painkiller like morphine. Most soldiers would only use it during amputations. In the long recovery period, they could only rely on shouting to get through these miserable, maddening times.

The young Ukrainian lads, who had been out of their farms or villages for less than a month, were simply lined up under the scolding of their officers and began to walk out of the train station. But most of them, before they had even taken a step, were curiously looking at the wounded soldiers with missing arms and legs.

No war is without death. Perhaps in the future, there will be wars of robots fighting robots, but at least before 1939, such a thing had not yet appeared in human civilization. Whether it was the mutual slaughter on the ancient battlefields or the mutual shelling and strafing in modern history, there would ultimately be deaths, and there would inevitably be wounded.

On a brutal battlefield like Stalingrad, the wounded were naturally the most common sight. In the field hospitals, one could see amputated arms or legs everywhere. In the burial grounds in the rear, one could often see trucks piled high with corpses passing through the main gate.

The casualty rate for the Ukrainian soldiers here was quite high. It was said to have once reached a probability of one in two. These young new recruits, who had been sent to the front from the rear, would generally be thrown into the most dangerous parts of the battlefield by the veterans. Only those who could survive would have a chance to see the next day, or the day after.

Looking not far away, at the wounded Ukrainians being carried onto the train by lightly wounded German soldiers and doctors and nurses, a look of fear appeared on the faces of all the Ukrainian new recruits. After all, none of them had experienced real, brutal slaughter. To let them see their future fate now was truly a blow to their morale.

“Alright! Don’t look at those soldiers anymore! By comparison, they are already the lucky ones. They can receive more land and a resettlement allowance,” a Ukrainian officer, who seemed to have grown numb to it all, shouted to the new recruits on the platform, trying to encourage them to fight bravely. “Fall in! In a little while, you will be divided and assigned to various units! Everyone can receive paper and a pen tonight and can write a letter home to their families.”

Another Ukrainian staff officer also stood in the center of the ranks, repeatedly checking if his work was complete. “Is there anyone who has not yet written a will? Is there anyone who has no family? Is there anyone else who needs to write a will! Those who need to, gather here with me!”

The entire platform was in chaos. The Ukrainian soldiers pushed and shoved as they began to descend from the platform. The gate was divided into several narrow exits, each allowing only one person to pass at a time. Outside the barbed wire were the registration office and the German officers. They would assign the recorded Ukrainian soldiers to the heavily damaged Ukrainian units at the front in a random manner.

“Everyone can receive a can of food! Tonight you will have a very hearty dinner,” a German officer shouted from a wooden crate to the young Ukrainians passing below. “The Führer has given Ukraine hope! We must fight for the Führer! Overthrow Stalin’s evil rule!”

A military band in the distance was boringly repeating a majestic piece of music. Whenever a train of replacements arrived, they had to play those same tunes that had been repeated countless times. A Ukrainian female choir was singing at the top of their lungs. The content of the lyrics was nothing more than shedding blood for the Führer and for Ukraine.

After being led away by their respective replacement units, these young Ukrainians finally felt the tense atmosphere of the battlefield: the German tanks parked on the side of the road, the camouflaged anti-aircraft guns, and in the fields, the large-caliber German artillery constantly bombarding the distant targets.

They entered the material supply camps of their respective units in the rear and were then assigned to tents. Personal belongings were not allowed in these tents, because they had to be used by the next batch of arriving new recruits. Here, they were required to rest and to drill normally, to march along the nearby roads, and to observe the powerful German large-caliber artillery bombarding the enemy positions. Before dinner, they had to listen to a representative from their hometown read about the happy lives of their families. This was one of the ideological education contents with German characteristics.

“Carefully inspect the weapons in your hands!” The next morning, after these soldiers had eaten a hearty dinner of canned meat, vegetables, and mashed potatoes, and after a night of blissful sleep, they had basically forgotten the tragic scenes they had seen at the train station. At this time, they would receive their rifles and, under the roar of the gunsmiths, would inspect the weapons assigned to them to see if they were up to standard.

These rifles all had a uniform serial number, which could be used to trace the manufacturer. Once a problem occurred, every person who had been involved in the production process could be traced. The inspection work would generally go very smoothly, because the Mauser 98k rifle was simple in structure, had a very large production volume, and therefore had a very high reliability.

Then the new recruits would have to learn their last lesson before going to the battlefield. A German grenadier began to explain in detail the various problems that might be encountered on the battlefield. “First point! Keep your heads down as much as possible! This will ensure that a bullet will not hit your vital parts! If you have a choice, I hope you will try to take a bullet with your arm or your backpack, not your head!”

As he spoke, he held up a second finger. “Second point! After being hit, try to find cover. The bodies of the dead, a pile of rubble, a corner of a wall will all do! Then shout for a medic. Unless you really can’t move, don’t just stop. That will make you a target for the enemy!”

He then held up a third finger and continued to say loudly, “Hug the walls! Follow your superior’s orders! Get along with your comrades! Don’t smoke at night, or you’ll be turned into a sieve!…”

Everyone held their rifles, listening to the German soldier drone on in German. A Ukrainian translator explained, word by word. Further in the distance, a bald man in clerical robes was constantly praying for all the new recruits. No one could hear the words of his prayer very clearly, but most of them still piously followed the man, making the sign of the cross on their chests.

Finally, some of the grassroots officers who had been sent from the frontline units to receive the replacements began to shout, “This row of men, stand up! Follow me! Your unit designation is the 33rd Ukrainian Infantry Division! Don’t get it mixed up! The 33rd Division! Understand?”

From the other side, someone was also shouting in a similarly hysterical voice, “From now on, you are the soldiers of the heroic 40th Ukrainian Division! We are the most elite unit! We have once repulsed 10 attacks from those damn Soviets! We have never been defeated! All of you, get your spirits up! I’m talking to you!”

“Do you think these new recruits can really wear down a large number of Soviet soldiers?” a German colonel asked, standing in front of his tent, shaving, to a colleague, an artillery commander, behind him.

“Half of them will die on the front line. Of the other half, half will be wounded and become disabled,” the artillery colonel said with an indifferent expression. “But if they don’t go, then our own German young men will have to go and risk their lives. So I really hope these Ukrainians can end this war quickly.”

He glanced at the infantry colonel who had participated in the offensive yesterday and said with a smile, “I hear your unit fought well yesterday. General Küchler praised you by name and even said he would nominate you for the Iron Cross?”

“My men have lost 95 men. They are the ones who should receive a medal,” the shaving colonel said, his voice muffled, as he looked at the Ukrainian new recruits who were being assigned to the various frontline units in the distance. “Every soldier who has been through this hellish battle should have his own medal, a medal that belongs to them.”

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