Chapter 942: Thoughts of Their Own

“Comrade General! A message just came in. Our army’s famous hero, the ace sniper Lieutenant Vasily, has been killed in action on the factory district position.” A staff officer walked into Rokossovsky’s office without knocking. The basement was now incredibly dim, and one could only vaguely make out the silhouettes of people and objects by the light of the kerosene lamp on the table.

In the darkness, Rokossovsky put something away, placing it in an iron box in front of him. Without deliberately trying to hide anything, he stood up, walked to a brighter spot, and smiled apologetically at his aide. “Some of the medals I received in Moscow… they’re probably useless to me now.”

He then placed the iron box on a low table beside him and walked towards his staff officer. “Vasily, the one who sniped so many Germans… killed in action? He’s dead? Such an outstanding soldier… how could he die just like that…”

“Yes, Comrade General. We are surrounded now. We should at least think of a way. We can’t go on like this,” the staff officer said with a worried expression. As he spoke, the kerosene lamp flickered, and the dancing light made his face look no better than a fierce ghost’s.

After all, a person who had endured such a state for so long could not possibly be in a good mental state. Hiding in the dark air-raid tunnels under the city, seeing only a brief glimpse of sunlight each day, and then being cooped up in that dark and desperate environment, not knowing when it would end.

That feeling of longing for everything to end as soon as possible, but knowing that the end of everything was death, made everyone in this command post a little decadent. At least in the last few days, even the ever-confident Rokossovsky had begun to seem a little distracted.

“If… if you have a way to get out of here, I approve it,” Rokossovsky said, looking at his staff officer and abandoning his tough facade. He had once executed a dozen high-ranking generals for desertion. Now, as his own final moment was approaching, this cold-blooded, high-ranking Soviet commander was showing his soft side.

He walked up to his staff officer, reached out his hand, seemed to hesitate for a moment, and finally patted the other on the shoulder twice. “I have prepared myself to give my life for my motherland… But you, or all of you, are still young. You shouldn’t have to die here with a sinner like me.”

“Comrade General! This is Stalingrad! This is the city for which we must give our lives! Hundreds of thousands of our young soldiers have died in battle here. If we, the commanders, were to leave at the last moment, then what face would we have to return to our motherland?” the staff officer said, his eyes lowered, his tone tinged with a hint of sorrow.

Yes, he had ordered tens of thousands of young soldiers to soak the entire Stalingrad in their blood—every crack in the stone here was filled with red soil, every square was piled high with rotting corpses, every building was covered in mottled bullet holes, and every crater seemed to be an abyss that had sucked in countless souls.

He had ordered his troops to attack repeatedly and coldly. He had ordered them not to yield an inch of ground. He had used human lives to fill one after another of the large pits dug by the Germans. He had used the lives of his men to uphold his promise to defend Stalingrad.

Unfortunately, when everything had gone far away, he found that he was just a fly struggling in a spider’s web. It seemed that with just a little struggle, he could break free, but in the end, the silk threads around him only grew tighter. Defending Stalingrad, this mantra had become an unattainable strategic objective, like a flower in a mirror or the moon in the water. From the moment Zhukov’s southward advance had been delayed, Rokossovsky had had a premonition that he would be leaving the stage here, becoming a “historical” figure.

The elite infantry and armored units of his elite 2nd Guards Front had already been consumed in the streets and alleys of Stalingrad. By the time these units had suffered such heavy losses that they could no longer be formed into a fist to become a counter-attacking force, Rokossovsky had finally realized that the brutal street fighting of Stalingrad was not only consuming Germany’s precious manpower, but was also, in an even bloodier way, consuming the Soviet Union’s already dwindling mobilization capacity.

The Soviet Union’s mobilization capacity was three times that of Germany’s. This was a rough judgment based on population—the Soviet population was about three times that of Germany’s. But this multiple had shrunk after the Germans had mobilized Ukraine and other regions, shrinking to an insignificant less than twice.

And even this weakened advantage, in the face of the Soviet front’s repeated large-scale losses, had already been almost completely thrown away. The total number of troops that the entire Soviet Union could now mobilize was, in fact, about the same as the total number of troops that the German army could mobilize—just thinking about it was enough to make one collapse.

“Have the head of the guards come in!” Rokossovsky felt his palms trembling, for his final moment was at hand. This head of the guards had been assigned to him by Stalin. He could be said to be a very dutiful man, but Rokossovsky knew that this head of the guards was very likely the person Stalin had sent to supervise his fulfillment of his promise to share the fate of Stalingrad.

“Comrade General!” The head of the guards, upon entering the door, stood at attention respectfully and gave a very formal military salute. Rokossovsky gave an awkward smile. He didn’t know if the other could see his expression, but he still made it.

“Comrade Chief of Staff, you may leave. Announce my order to everyone in the headquarters. I declare that you are now free to break out or to surrender. Any decision is approved by me,” Rokossovsky said, signaling for his chief of staff to leave. As the other was about to leave the room, he repeated his command.

“Sir…” The chief of staff glanced at the back of the head of the guards who had just entered the room, as if he wanted to say something more. But Rokossovsky waved his hand, cutting him off. And so the chief of staff had no choice but to salute at attention, turn, and leave.

For a time, the atmosphere in the room was a bit strange. Rokossovsky was the first to speak. “In this situation, it makes no difference whether I am here or not. Stalingrad will eventually be occupied by the Germans, and I have already exhausted all my means. Now no one can change the outcome, so I have called you here to thank you for your care over this long period of time.”

“If Comrade Zhukov’s troops were to go south, would it be possible to retake Stalingrad?” the head of the guards asked, his voice hoarse. The power had been out here for many days, and in the last few days, water had also become a scarce resource, so everyone’s throat was a little hoarse, and their speech carried a lingering note of despair.

“If I were him, I would have retreated to Moscow. At least that way he would have a more dignified end,” Rokossovsky said with a cold laugh, and then continued, “From the moment Stalin and Zhukov hesitated and wasted the opportunity to go south, I have been waiting for this day. I have held on here with the lives of countless men, hoping to change something at the last moment—but it is too late, everything is over.”

BOOM! The huge sound of an explosion made one involuntarily frown. The German army’s shelling had begun again. In the distance, one could almost hear the frantic cheers of the German grenadiers. A few minutes ago, the commander of another encirclement had already sent a telegram. The German army was only a few dozen meters from that command post.

In this situation, even a fool would know that the other encirclement was finished, and Rokossovsky knew that his own encirclement would not last much longer either. The German army was cutting off his retreat route along the Volga. At most, it would only take another day for his command post to be captured by the Germans. All resistance was futile, because the organized, established units had already been wiped out. Every defensive position could only fight on its own.

“If you act quickly, then you will at least have a chance to break out. The German attack on the riverbank is not fast. If you hurry, you will still have a chance to go back and report to Stalin,” Rokossovsky said, pouring himself a glass of vodka and then undoing the collar of his uniform with his hand.

He really wanted to have a good drink. After all, he was also a Russian who enjoyed a drink. Listening to the rumbling of the cannons in the distance, listening to the dust falling from the ceiling of the basement and tapping on the map paper, Rokossovsky downed the vodka in his hand in one gulp, and then greedily poured himself another.

“Shoot. Otherwise, I’ll drink this whole good bottle,” this general at the end of his rope said to the head of the guards in front of him, trying to persuade him with a kind and understanding tone. “You take half a bottle with you. You’ll have a good drink to accompany you on the road. Remember to drink a lot. It’s estimated that in Moscow, or in Chelyabinsk… in short, you will also die. At that time, we will meet again.”

“I think… if I find myself a new master, then at least I can live for a long time…” the head of the guards said as he drew his pistol. He cocked it and said with a smile, “If I hand you over to Akado, maybe I can get a major’s commission in the Third Reich.”

“You! This is the supreme headquarters of Stalingrad… you can’t possibly get me out of here. There are many Red Army commanders and guards outside. They won’t just watch as you take me from here, and…” Rokossovsky was in the process of preparing for his own death, so he had not yet come to his senses. He had thought his time was up, but now he found that someone had thought of more than him.

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