Chapter 943: Prisoners Are Not Allowed to Speak

Rat-tat! Rat-tat-tat! Crack! A chaotic burst of gunfire suddenly erupted in the corridor. There was the sound of German assault rifles, and what sounded like a PPSh submachine gun. The whole basement was instantly filled with the deafening roar of gunfire.

After only a few brief seconds, the gunshots gradually died down. The previous cacophony vanished as if it had never happened. A strange smile played on the Guard Captain’s face. “You see? No need to worry about a thing. The troublemakers have all been cleared out. You’re my new life-saving talisman now.”

A guard carrying a PPSh submachine gun entered and stood at attention before the Guard Captain. “Sir, the entire headquarters is under our control. All stubborn personnel have been eliminated.”

“Well done. Take our Comrade Commander Rokossovsky outside to see the sun,” the Guard Captain said, waving his pistol casually and gesturing for Rokossovsky to walk ahead. “After all, he’s been sitting in here for long enough. It seems he’s forgotten that some things are unchangeable. The Third Reich has won. That is the new problem we now need to consider.”

The general, who had once served under Timoshenko and had ultimately become one of Zhukov’s most capable commanders, walked with heavy steps out of the office he had not left for three days. Behind him were not his protective guards, but two traitors with the muzzles of their guns pressed against his back.

Outside the office door stood another Soviet soldier, also slinging a submachine gun. At his feet lay the bodies of two blonde female secretaries. Blood was still flowing from their chests. These two female military clerks, responsible for handling documents, lay silently on the floor, soundless.

Rokossovsky continued to walk forward. The corpse at his feet was that of the young guardsman who had always been so loyal to him. This guardsman was Rokossovsky’s cousin’s son. He had originally come looking for a meal ticket by playing the family card; now he lay here, his eyes wide open in death.

Outside this room, the number of bodies suddenly increased. After all, there were more guards and soldiers stationed here, so when the mutiny first broke out, the men here had instinctively put up a firm resistance. Dozens of soldiers were dead, either slumped against the walls or sprawled in the middle of the corridor. Some were the mutineers with submachine guns, others were officers and clerks clutching pistols.

“You could have controlled this place with more elegant means…” Rokossovsky walked to a wall, crouched down, and reached out to touch the chief of staff who had just walked out of his office. This man had worked with him for a year; the two of them had a deep friendship.

The chief of staff was clutching a small, delicate pistol, his eyes staring blankly at Rokossovsky. It was clear he could no longer close them, nor could he raise his weapon against the enemy again. There were several holes in his body, and the blood had already stained his military uniform red. Rokossovsky sighed, stood up from the ground, and, under the guard of several soldiers, continued to walk forward.

Further outside, Rokossovsky finally saw the German special forces he had been longing to see. These elite operational units, with even their helmets made of special materials, were now sizing him up and down with their deep-set, curious eyes.

The tactical vests these men wore were of a style he had never seen before, and even the military uniforms underneath were different from those of the regular German infantry. Some of them held MG-44 assault rifles, others had G43 semi-automatic rifles slung over their backs. Some were leaning against a wall, smoking, while others were guarding the surrendered headquarters personnel.

“Where is your officer? In this situation, I would still prefer to speak to your officer. After all, I have no interest in talking to a traitor. That is my personal dignity,” Rokossovsky said to a German special forces soldier who looked like an officer, his tone sarcastic.

“They basically don’t speak Russian. I think no matter how much you say, he won’t understand what you’re talking about,” the Guard Captain said with a cold laugh, prodding Rokossovsky in the back with his gun and signaling him not to waste any more words and to keep walking.

Sure enough, the Germans remained unmoved, letting the Guard Captain herd Rokossovsky forward. Rokossovsky shouted loudly, hoping to attract someone’s attention. “Does anyone here speak Russian? I am the supreme commander here. I have something I wish to discuss with someone who understands Russian.”

A German officer finally stopped Rokossovsky, who was about to walk out of the basement, and then asked in fluent Russian, “Hello, I can understand what you are saying. We have a lot to do, and I hope you will not waste our time. What is it you want to say? You can begin.”

“If you are willing, I can order all the troops here to stop resisting…” Rokossovsky said, his voice trembling slightly. “Enough people have died here, really, enough. I want to do something for those who are still alive. I hope you can understand.”

A dozen minutes later, a long-forgotten sound echoed from the loudspeakers in the square. The Soviet soldiers, struggling in the ruins, heard a familiar voice, heard a piece of news they could hardly believe: “Esteemed commanders and soldiers of the Red Army, all comrades who are still fighting… I am Konstantin Konstantinovich Rokossovsky… If you are willing, please obey my last order. Lay down your weapons, and cease all meaningless resistance. The Battle of Stalingrad is over. You have done your best.”

“Thank you for your long-standing bravery and tenacity. It was I, an incompetent man, who led you into this abyss of despair. I am destined to become a clown, but you have no need to give up your own lives for my sake. Lay down your weapons. The German commander has already promised to guarantee your safety, as long as you give up your resistance.” Rokossovsky’s trembling voice finally stopped, and the sound of gunfire within Stalingrad also began to die down.

When this commander-in-chief of the Stalingrad defenders walked out of the basement, he saw the German Panther tanks parked at the entrance, as well as the scattered bodies of the Soviet defenders and the endless ruins and rubble. There was still the faint sound of gunfire from the streets not far away. It seemed the resistance here had not stopped immediately as he had hoped.

Some soldiers, having lost their souls, began to curl up in corners and commit suicide. Many cried out loud but refused to drop the weapons in their hands. The sound of surrender was everywhere, mixed with the sudden, fierce sound of dense gunfire. Some civilians, from who knows where, poured out and stood on both sides of the street, watching the dejected Soviet soldiers pass before them with their hands raised.

The nearly two-month-long bitter battle had finally ended today. The soldiers, who seemed to have forgotten what a normal day was like, had lost their final belief. They had not stopped the invaders from occupying this city named after the leader. They had let down the hundreds of thousands of their predecessors who had died here.

Rokossovsky felt the sunlight was a bit glaring. He squinted his eyes, then raised his arm and shielded the sun with his palm. Looking along the dazzling light, on a four-story building that was all that was left in the distance, a dozen or so German grenadiers were scrambling to hang a red swastika flag on the wall.

The huge, banner-like flag unfurled on the outer wall of the building, accompanied by one after another, increasingly uniform shout of the name “Akado Rudolph.” An armored car, filled with German soldiers and escorted by two squads of Ukrainian soldiers carrying weapons, passed in front of Rokossovsky.

Mounted on the armored car was not a swaggering machine gun, but a temporarily made loudspeaker. The loudspeaker repeatedly replayed General Rokossovsky’s order to surrender, calling on all the brave Soviet warriors who were still holding their positions to lay down their weapons and come out to surrender.

A squad of German soldiers walked over, holding their weapons. Beside them were the Soviet prisoners, one after another, with their hands on their heads. These men, who had been fighting a bloody battle just an hour ago to prevent Stalingrad from falling into German hands, who had been filled with the heroic spirit of dying in battle here an hour ago, now, with this glimmer of hope, most of them would choose to live a humble life. Because to be alive meant there was still a chance to wait for another hope.

“Pah!” A Soviet battalion commander, walking forward with his hands on his head, saw Rokossovsky standing by the side of the road next to a Panther tank. He spat a thick wad of phlegm on the ground as he passed his former superior, his face filled with resentment. “Filth! Traitor! How many men died here because of your orders? They trusted you, they died for your orders! And you, you actually have the face to still be alive in this world!”

The German special forces officer glanced at the cursing battalion commander, then smiled, took out a beautifully packaged box of French cigarettes from his pocket, tore open the lid, and drew out two. He handed one to the Guard Captain and one to Rokossovsky. He then helped the two of them light their cigarettes before taking one out for himself. “If you’re not comfortable, I can make him shut up.”

Before Rokossovsky could speak, a gunshot rang out in the distance. The Soviet prisoner battalion commander who had just been cursing fell to the ground. Another unlucky soul beside him was also hit by the same bullet and fell to the ground with a miserable scream.

A half-baked Russian phrase came from the distance, sending a chill down everyone’s spine: “Prisoners are not allowed to speak! Otherwise, he will be the next!”

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