Chapter 888: Incredibly Stupid

On a street in Stalingrad, already unrecognizable, the ground was littered with craters from German artillery fire. By the edges of these craters lay the bodies of Soviet soldiers, and inside them were scattered various human remains. The entire city was a scene like this, like a desolate, dead domain.

Two local civilians from Stalingrad, with gauze wrapped around their hands, were numbly lifting the unfortunate soul whose head had been shattered by a German sniper, and tossing him onto a stretcher. This was a matter that both armies had tacitly agreed upon: allowing local civilians to clear the bodies to prevent the outbreak of a large-scale epidemic.

The positions in the distance had not yet completely fallen silent. The rat-a-tat-tat of machine guns, combined with the one-shot-at-a-time crack of rifles, was like a symphony, adding a touch of vitality to this city that had fallen mostly quiet.

A German rifleman suddenly appeared from behind a collapsed low wall. From his attire, he was a proper German grenadier, with a tactical vest, hand grenades hanging from it, and a G43 semi-automatic rifle in his hands. This getup proved he was a standard German, and the medal on his chest also showed he had participated in the Second Battle of Poland.

He cautiously bent his waist and walked quickly across the block. Behind him, a second German soldier also appeared from behind the low wall, but it was clear that this was a Ukrainian vassal soldier, wearing an SS uniform that hadn’t been washed in a long time, without a tactical vest, and carrying a standard Mauser 98k rifle.

About seventeen or eighteen German soldiers emerged in single file from behind that low wall. They walked across the street in front of them with extreme caution, passed the two locals who were carrying a body, and leaned against the outer wall of a building on the other side of the street for a brief rest. They watched as the two civilians with white armbands on their arms threw the body of their opponent into a deep crater.

These German soldiers had clearly been cooperating for a very long time. After resting for a few dozen seconds, they began to move with a tacit understanding. Some scrambled into the building behind them, while others outflanked from both sides. Soon, the sound of dense gunfire came from inside the house. The two civilians on the street flinched but didn’t even make any obvious evasive movements. They continued to busy themselves with their work, throwing the surrounding corpses into the large crater that was already almost full.

It was just another ordinary room-to-room battle. The Soviet and German armies were fighting for every inch of land here. Someone had even joked that even if you occupied the bedroom, you still had to fight the enemy for the kitchen.

The sound of gunfire gradually died down. Suddenly, a Soviet soldier stumbled out of the main gate of the building. He had two still-bleeding holes in his body. He looked at the two civilians on the street with a bewildered expression, then struggled for a couple of moments and finally fell headfirst onto the ground, making no further sound.

A German soldier chased him out, leaned against the door, and watched as this Soviet soldier, who was in fact already in his death throes, escaped from the house. He watched him finally collapse from exhaustion, and then his gaze shifted to the two Soviet civilians. He tilted his head slightly, signaling them to continue.

And so, the two Soviet civilians who were in charge of cleaning up the corpses walked to the side of the new Soviet corpse. One grabbed the crossed legs, and the other grabbed the collar of the soldier’s uniform. Together, they lifted the body and then, with a great heave, threw it into the large crater.

The steel helmet on the head of the Soviet soldier who had just died slipped off and clattered onto the ground. Due to the force, it swayed back and forth and even spun slightly. But its owner clearly no longer needed it, would never need it again.

Since the first counter-attack had been repulsed by the Germans, the Soviets had launched another large-scale counter-attack yesterday. Unfortunately, this time the Soviet counter-attack had met with a desperate resistance from the Germans. Until the morning of the second day, they had not been able to advance a sufficient distance.

In the basement of the Stalingrad Soviet defenders, several Soviet commanders were sketching on a map. They hadn’t retaken many positions, and each one had to be carefully marked. Then it was up to Rokossovsky to decide which ones had to be abandoned and which could continue to be defended.

“The second assault was not successful. The weapons the Germans have configured for the Ukrainians have been improved, and the Ukrainian troops’ combat methods are also more mature,” a division commander who had just returned from the front reported to Rokossovsky, a bandage on his hand. “Although the German army has not counter-attacked, our army’s casualties are still very heavy.”

As he spoke, a German artillery barrage once again paid a visit to the area around the command post. One after another, large-caliber shells slammed into the ground, tearing apart the surrounding buildings with a devastating force and making the earth tremble. The dust falling from the ceiling pattered on the maps and documents laid out on the table, like a timer on a clock, striking everyone’s thoughts one by one.

This was hell, a hell from which no one could escape. The average lifespan of a newly reinforced Soviet soldier was only one day. In other words, a replacement soldier on the battlefield could, in most cases, only live for less than twenty hours. They were either blown to pieces by shells, or buried under collapsed houses, or turned into sieves by German bullets, or turned into sieves by friendly bullets.

The Soviet army had transferred a full 30 divisions of combat troops from the Eastern Front and had reinforced the Caucasus region with them. Among them, 10 divisions had been given to Rokossovsky, and the remaining 20 divisions were to be deployed in the direction of the Baku oil fields. Now, of these new troops that had arrived at Stalingrad, three divisions had already been completely wiped out by the German army.

Yes, completely wiped out. Although the reserves in Rokossovsky’s hands were still vast, the rate at which these reserves were being consumed was several, even a dozen times, what the Soviets had expected. If calculated at this rate, in less than half a year, in another two or three months, the German army would be able to leisurely advance north and south from Stalingrad.

Rokossovsky gave a helpless smile. A few days ago, he had just sent his plea for help to Moscow, requesting that Zhukov draw up a plan for a decisive battle to the south to save the hundreds of thousands of Soviet troops who were trapped in the southern theater. He hoped that the main Soviet force would head south and crash into Guderian’s armored forces. Even if they did not achieve the result of annihilating G Army Group, it would be enough to make the German N Army Group wary and not dare to attack Stalingrad with all its might.

As a frontline commander, Rokossovsky, of course, knew the importance of the Caucasus to both the German army and the Soviet Union. He had made a judgment as the almost supreme commander of the Caucasus region, that the direction of the German army’s offensive was undoubtedly the Caucasus.

So he was very certain that the German Army Group A and Army Group F were basically holding their ground because the German army lacked the fuel to support them. It was also for this reason that he had urged Zhukov, hoping that this Soviet commander-in-chief could persuade Stalin to boldly abandon Moscow and seize the initiative in the war.

Although the Soviet high command and the American military experts had great confidence in guerrilla warfare in the Caucasus mountains, Rokossovsky, who knew the Soviet army, knew that, leaving aside the technical aspects, at the very least, the German army was not as afraid of street fighting or guerrilla warfare as it seemed.

Along the transport lines of Georgia and the Caspian Sea coast, it was possible to bypass the mountains and strike directly at Baku. The key was whether they had an advantage in logistical supply and manpower, and how strong the enemy’s will to resist was. And besides Baku, the oil-producing region near Grozny was also a big cake that made the German army’s mouth water.

“The reinforcements will be here soon, what are you afraid of?” Rokossovsky said, gesturing for the wounded officer to leave his command post. He then stood up himself, went around a square wooden pillar that was supporting the roof, and walked to the wall that was built of sandbags. He reached out and stroked the somewhat dusty map of Stalingrad.

He didn’t believe that his old superior, Zhukov, with his talent, would really abandon Stalingrad and go to defend Moscow, which was far less significant. So he knew that reinforcements would arrive sooner or later, and with the force of a thunderbolt, they would crush everything.

It was for this reason that his mind was filled with thoughts of how to use the limited troops in his hands to pin down the German N Army Group when the Soviet troops began their southern advance, to prevent it from going north to support Guderian’s G Army Group. As long as G Army Group was defeated in isolation, then N Army Group would be forced to retreat, and M Army Group would also have to contract its defense line because its rear would be insecure—the situation on the German-Soviet front would be reversed, and the German army would be forced from a strategic offensive to a strategic defensive.

“Comrade General! Comrade General! A top-secret telegram of the highest level!” an operations officer said, holding a telegram as he walked into Rokossovsky’s command post. He stood at attention, saluted, and then handed the thin sheet of paper to Rokossovsky.

“Has Zhukov’s main force gone south?” With great joy, Rokossovsky snatched the telegram, but its contents filled him with despair. The telegram was indeed from Zhukov, but its content was the complete opposite of what Rokossovsky had thought: “In view of the lack of relevant evidence for the German army’s fuel shortage, the plan for the main force to go south for a decisive battle is temporarily suspended. During this period, Rokossovsky’s combat group must defend Stalingrad to the death to create favorable conditions for the subsequent Soviet counter-attack.”

Below the order was a passage that was clearly a personal message from Zhukov to Rokossovsky: “Comrade Rokossovsky, Moscow was subjected to a large-scale bombing last night. Comrade Stalin and I both doubt the accuracy of the news of the German army’s fuel shortage. So the offensive plan is temporarily suspended. Please understand.”

“Heh heh,” Rokossovsky said, throwing the telegram to the floor and letting out two cold laughs before sighing. “They don’t even understand the principle of ‘speed is the soldier’s most precious asset.’ How incredibly stupid.”

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