Chapter 893: In the Quiet Rain

April’s sky is like a child’s face, and this is even more so on the muddy plains of the Soviet Union. The weather, clear and cloudless just a moment ago, had turned to rain, and the rain was falling harder and harder, with a seemingly endless persistence.

Raindrops pattered on the eaves, a rhythmic drip-drip-drip; they clinked against the cold barrels of guns, a crisp, metallic sound; they fell on one corpse after another with a dull, muffled thud. On the battlefield, where no fighting was taking place, everything was very quiet, with only the sounds of nature echoing.

The war had made everyone a little abnormal, because in times of peace, no one could imagine walking past a corpse with such indifference. A few German soldiers, carrying their rifles, walked quickly past some bodies that had long grown cold on the ground and entered a building not far away that had long since collapsed into a single story.

The roof was no longer a rainproof ceiling, but the well-finished floor of the original second story. In a corner was a crooked wooden wardrobe, the mottled bullet holes on it a testament to the fierce firefight that had once taken place there. Everything here had been through battle, and everything had been left with an eternal memento of that battle.

The last German infantryman to enter the room took off his helmet, revealing a fine head of blond hair. He held the helmet and shook it vigorously towards the door, flinging the rainwater outside.

A downpour had brought a solemn silence to the entire battlefield. Apart from the sound of the rain, there was no longer the roar of cannons, nor the scream of machine guns. Stalingrad had lost its clamor of yesterday, leaving only a silence that was almost frightening.

“Come and warm up!” a Ukrainian veteran in a corner called out to the few young Ukrainian lads who had just come in. He had lit a simple field stove there, and the alcohol tablets inside were still burning.

A pot of water was already boiling, steaming. The few who had come in quickly gathered around, extending their hands to feel the warmth of the hot water. Although the April weather was no longer so cold, after being soaked by the rain, to have a warm place to sit for a while was clearly something to be thankful for.

A young Ukrainian soldier sat down against the wall, feeling the warmth from the stove in the corner while sizing up the room he was about to fight in. There were bullet holes and bloodstains on the walls. It seemed that in this place, Stalingrad, one could find these two things everywhere.

“We have been ordered to reinforce the defenses here. How many Soviet soldiers are on the other side? How far are they from here?” a forty-year-old man with a rifle on his back asked, looking askance at the ruins on the other side of the small square.

The Ukrainian veteran lit a cigarette for himself, then sneered and said, “Across from us is a battalion from the 2nd Regiment of the 66th Soviet Division. There are about 200 men left, and they haven’t been replaced yet. They’ve been holding those ruins for almost two days. We haven’t attacked, and they haven’t counter-attacked.”

Compared to when they had first entered Stalingrad, the equipment of the Ukrainian volunteers had improved a great deal. At the very least, they now had field stoves for heating things and issued alcohol tablets. They could occasionally eat fried noodles and potato powder, and after a battle, there were even cigarettes and canned food as a reward.

Their combat effectiveness, tempered by the flames of war, began to increase exponentially. With the support of the dense German artillery fire and the infiltration of snipers and special forces, the casualty rate of the Ukrainian soldiers had dropped sharply, and they were able to maintain a 1-to-2 or 1-to-3 ratio with the Soviet army.

Here, in this very city, more than 60,000 Ukrainian soldiers had already died in battle. Including the Germans and other regional troops, another 20,000 had fallen. This meant that the Soviet Union, in this battle for the city, had lost more than 200,000 troops.

This was no longer a war, but a contest where the soldiers of both sides were staking their lives. 17,000 German soldiers had died in Stalingrad. Their last letters would be mailed home along with their uniforms and pay allowances, to be delivered to their families by the highest local military officer.

“What a lucky weather,” the middle-aged Ukrainian soldier with the gun sneered. He found a relatively clean corner, sat down, closed his eyes, and began to rest. Soon, he was snoring softly. The war, at this moment, seemed very, very far from the soldiers in this room.

On the surface of the Volga River, the raindrops created many ripples. Rokossovsky stood on the west bank of the Volga, here in Stalingrad, watching the ferry boats, one after another, loaded with soldiers, slowly moving towards him.

The terrifying Stuka dive bombers of the German Naval Air Arm could not take off in such bad weather, which gave the Soviet army a chance to rush supplies and soldiers into Stalingrad under the cover of the rain. If it were possible, Rokossovsky would have preferred for this heavy rain to continue forever. At least he would no longer have to face those ever-present German planes.

“Quick! Organize the large boats to transport ammunition! Before this rain stops, we must rush as much ammunition across the river as possible. Speed it up! Speed it up!” Rokossovsky stood there with someone holding an umbrella for him, but his subordinates were not so lucky. Or rather, he did not dare to appear too ostentatious in front of his superior, so he stood in the pouring rain himself, personally directing the dispatch of the boats.

A small light boat came alongside the riverbank, filled with new Soviet recruits who had been drenched by the heavy rain. One by one, these new recruits jumped off the small boat, then held their already soaked caps on their heads, as if surrendering with their hands up.

The slightly larger boats were either used to transport valuable goods like bullets and medicine, or had already been sunk by German planes. The boats in the hands of the Soviets were getting smaller and smaller, sometimes so small they could only hold a dozen or so people.

When the weather was good, the German planes would bomb along the riverbanks, finding and sinking the larger, camouflaged boats. The smaller the boat, the easier it was to camouflage, so the surviving boats were all of the smaller kind.

“Put them down! Put your hands down!” Rokossovsky frowned slightly. Before he could speak, an officer in charge of receiving them walked over and shouted at the new recruits, “Fall in! Go up from here! Someone will receive you up there! Go! Go!”

What awaited these new recruits was not only the scattered craters on the riverbank and the piled-up, long-destroyed cannons, cars, and other weapons, but also the camouflaged field hospitals, filled with disabled soldiers who needed to be evacuated to the rear, and the throngs of sick soldiers waiting to receive anti-inflammatory drugs.

And so these new recruits, in the muddy riverbank, advanced with deep and shallow steps. They walked one after another, up the riverbank, and were then divided into groups. They let their wet clothes cling to their bodies and walked wearily into some of the warehouses and factory buildings that had not completely collapsed.

Rokossovsky did not speak. As far as his eyes could see, about two or three small boats had arrived at the same time. The men jumped off the boats and walked on the ground that had already been turned into a quagmire by the rain and the soldiers who had gone before them. These soldiers trudged along, and most of them looked at Rokossovsky, who was standing on a high place and looking down on everything, with a strange expression.

No one could remember exactly how many boatloads of soldiers had been sent into Stalingrad. All everyone knew was that the number of wounded that the departing boats took away was not even a tenth of the number of soldiers that had been brought in. In other words, tens of thousands of soldiers no longer needed to leave. They would become one with this city, never to be separated again.

“How is the food consumption? Is it still enough for the original plan?” Rokossovsky asked his aide behind him, watching as one boat after another of soldiers was unloaded on the bank. But what he was lamenting in his heart was, “So many men on one boat. Perhaps one shell, and they would all be killed…”

His aide leaned his head a little closer and said to his superior, “Comrade General, because the number of soldiers killed in action is too large, we have a lot of grain reserves left. Apart from a small part that was destroyed by the German bombing, most of it is very safe and can be used at any time.”

“Hmm… don’t be stingy,” Rokossovsky said after hearing his aide’s words. He nodded and then continued to instruct in that same calm and unruffled tone, “Give these new soldiers a little more grain. Let them die for the motherland. In any case, let them have a full meal before they go to their deaths.”

“Yes! Comrade General, I understand,” the aide immediately replied. Distributing grain was not a big deal, and he didn’t need to express his own opinion on such a small matter. Compared to these trivial matters, he was more concerned about how to find a good excuse to leave this terrible city.

Compared to the high survival rate of the German soldiers, the loss rate for the Soviet soldiers fighting in Stalingrad was quite high. Often, a few thousand men would be sent to the front line, and in a few hours, only half, or even a third, would be left. There were almost no replacement soldiers who could survive the first day here. The veterans were also in a state of dying at any time.

After such a heavy rain, I should have at least another 50,000 men who can fight, right? Rokossovsky breathed a slight sigh of relief. This batch of replacements would at least allow him to continue to hold on.

“Send a telegram to Moscow. Request once again that Marshal Zhukov lead his troops south to provide support,” Rokossovsky said, turning to walk back. “To defend this place to the death is, in the end, not a solution… Zhukov, you wouldn’t be so ignorant as to not even know such a simple thing, would you?”

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