The Fall of Tsaritsyn
The greatest strategist of the White Army.
Stalin's desperate defense collapses under the weight of superior White Army forces and Allied armor.
Stalin, tasked with defending Tsaritsyn, felt like he was dying inside. The military disadvantage was simply overwhelming. Those vaunted trenches of his were being overrun in the blink of an eye. To make matters worse, his main force consisted of conscripted peasants. The officers and generals from the old imperial days were refusing to cooperate—perhaps because the White Army was led by a grand duchess. On top of that, Britain, France, and Germany were showering the grand duchess with every kind of military supply imaginable. And America was funneling food aid to the White forces through the Far East. No matter how capable Stalin was, holding a defensive line under these conditions was proving impossible. They were already being pushed back all the way to the Volga River basin.
“Comrade. Comrade Voroshilov reports that the counter-revolutionaries’ assault is ferocious. The trench lines have already been breached!”
Every report that came in was steeped in despair. They would barely hold one sector, only for another to collapse. That was the pattern. At this rate, even holding a single city was uncertain. Street fighting would likely come next.
“Damn those Anglo-French bastards. Helping the reactionaries. I suppose they really are the same breed of imperialists after all.”
Stalin slammed his fist against the wall, grinding his teeth. In actual history, British tank divisions had supported the White Army here, and the Reds had been relatively pushed back. Yet by ultimately holding this ground, they had prevented the Southern and Siberian White forces from linking up. But in this twisted timeline, Anastasia had become the unifying figure, and everything had changed.
Anton Denikin of the Southern White Army was now moving with calculated caution, receiving support from Britain, France, and Germany through the Black Sea. For Anastasia in Yekaterinburg, who received tank support across the vast distance of the Far East, the most effective way to receive aid from the great powers would be to recapture Tsaritsyn—the linchpin that would allow the Southern and Siberian forces to connect. And now, that very event was unfolding in reality.
Stalin wanted to tear his hair out. The situation was simply too dire. That damned Trotsky. If he was going to execute the imperial family, he should have kept them as hostages. Why did Stalin have to suffer the consequences of that fool’s actions?
“Comrade Stalin.”
“If you’re just going to tell me the defensive line’s been breached, spare me.”
“Grand Duchess Anastasia is said to be personally present in the counter-revolutionary camp.”
At that moment, fire blazed in Stalin’s eyes. The grand duchess herself was in the enemy camp? So she really was the true mastermind behind it all. He had suspected something was off.
“No wonder those White Army dogs are fighting like madmen. Her mere presence must be boosting their morale to the heavens.”
“Yes, sir.”
In that case, they would need someone like Comrade Lenin to appear on their side. Right now the Soviet regime was like a candle flickering in the wind. The Bolsheviks had barely seized power, yet they were isolated from the world. They needed to end this civil war quickly and focus on internal governance, but instead they were forced into yet another defensive battle.
“Since the counter-revolutionaries’ leader has shown herself, perhaps we should go out and meet her.”
“Regardless, our military inferiority is undeniable.”
“Damn it all.”
If he could pin the entire blame for the imperial family’s execution on Trotsky, and if the attack on Yekaterinburg had already failed, then all he needed was to win this defensive battle to claim victory. That had been the plan. But now… the situation was looking extremely unfavorable.
The imperialists must have eaten something rotten, because they had halted their own wars just to support the grand duchess in crushing the Bolsheviks. If they had sent actual foreign troops, he could have painted her as a traitor and stirred up propaganda. But they were only supplying weapons, which made things far more difficult. Moreover, thanks to the grand duchess’s reforms, the Bolsheviks’ position was deteriorating in every possible way.
“W-what should we do?”
“Comrade, we must stay calm in times like these.”
The grand duchess, who had watched her parents and siblings butchered before her eyes, had clearly gone mad with vengeance and was now hurling herself at the Bolsheviks with ferocious intensity. Yes, at this rate she looked ready to march all the way to Moscow in her bloodlust.
Stalin let out a deep sigh.
Tsk. Who would have thought executing the imperial family would lead to this.
There were rumors that the Bolsheviks had killed Tsarevich Alexei in front of Nicholas II and the empress, then raped and murdered the empress and her daughters before the Tsar’s eyes. Those stories had spread across Europe. They grew more lurid with each retelling, but Stalin figured the local Cheka agents were more than capable of such atrocities. After all, the people’s rage against the imperial family had been immense.
But because of that, the one surviving grand duchess had awakened. If they were going to kill them, they should have killed them all at once. They had let the fish slip from the net, and now look at the mess.
It would have been better to convert the entire imperial family. It would be nice if reinforcements arrived to strike the grand duchess from behind, but that was unrealistic to expect. At the very least, to avoid ending up like Trotsky, they needed to achieve some kind of merit here.
“How long can we hold?”
“I’m not sure we can even make it through today.”
Useless. Looking at the state of things, the collapse was happening far too quickly. At this rate, his grand plan to topple Trotsky and seize his position was sinking before it could even begin. He would have to think about the future. Did that mean abandoning Voroshilov, with whom he had grown close? For now, survival came first. But how were they supposed to break through that encirclement? The defensive lines were already crumbling miserably. What could possibly stop the grand duchess’s army, burning with pure hatred?
“Comrade Stalin!”
Now even Voroshilov had come in person. For a brief moment, Stalin seriously considered hanging himself right then and there, but he quickly dismissed the thought. At this point, all he could do was offer a broad, good-natured smile.
“Comrade Voroshilov. Don’t tell me the grand duchess is personally leading the counter-revolutionaries to crush us and drive them straight into the city?”
“What if we break out?”
A breakout. Easy to say. But was it even possible? They were surrounded on all sides. Supposedly they were preventing the link-up between the Southern and Siberian White forces, but the enemy had already coordinated while encircling them. If they had been pushed back to the Volga basin and the city itself was under threat, then… where exactly were they supposed to escape to?
Of course, they could try to break out by using the enemy soldiers as shields, but that would make them no different from Trotsky, who had been crushed at Yekaterinburg. Stalin didn’t want to die here, but he at least wanted to preserve some dignity.
“Comrade, are you suggesting we simply hand the city over to those reactionaries? We cannot tuck our tails and run.”
Besides, he wasn’t even sure escape was possible in this encirclement.
“There’s a retreat route to the north!”
A retreat route to the north? They were already performing miracles by holding off an overwhelmingly superior enemy in both quantity and quality, and now there was a retreat route in the north? But if it was north, wouldn’t that be where the Yekaterinburg White forces were? What on earth were those reactionaries thinking? No matter how he turned it over in his mind, no answer came. Or perhaps the encirclement wasn’t yet complete. There was clearly some kind of problem.
Yes. If there was a chance to live, they had to take it. Only by surviving could they complete the revolution or succeed Lenin. In that case, they needed a justification for their retreat.
“This was inevitable the moment Trotsky failed to suppress Yekaterinburg!”
As expected, Voroshilov had given him exactly the words he wanted to hear. Yes. This was all Trotsky’s fault. Because of Trotsky, he was now forced to endure this humiliation. Anyone could see that the unwinnable fight had been created by Trotsky, the man holding military authority over the Red Army, who couldn’t even crush Yekaterinburg despite it being controlled by a mere girl who still had milk behind her ears. Of course, Trotsky could argue that the battle-hardened Czech Legion had been holding the line, but that didn’t matter right now.
Stalin shot up from his seat.
“Comrade Voroshilov, are you trying to force this humiliation upon me?”
“We must think of the future. We cannot allow our Red Army to be slaughtered for nothing.”
At least until they developed countermeasures against those tanks or whatever they were, they could not throw the Red Army under their treads like so much carpet.
“Yes. In the end, all of this is Trotsky’s fault.”
Stalin repeated the name once more. No matter what, everything was Trotsky’s fault.
“We must withdraw at once.”
“But even if we leave, we cannot simply leave empty-handed.”
“What do you mean?”
No matter what, he could never forgive what that grand duchess had done to them.
“Select a Red Guard unit that harbors particular hatred for the Romanovs.”
“You can’t mean…”
“We must show that we accomplished something before we retreat, mustn’t we?”
They said she wouldn’t die even if shot? How ridiculous. A person dies when shot, even if only lightly. She must have gotten lucky once and started some bizarre rumor. Let’s see if she survives this time too.
The Battle of Tsaritsyn ended in victory. Stalin had not put up a desperate resistance. If he had, it would have been quite troublesome for them. He had opened a retreat route, and he probably hadn’t wanted to die because of Trotsky. He would have his excuses ready.
Stalin, now returning to Moscow, would compete endlessly with Trotsky over responsibility for the defeat. With the recapture of Tsaritsyn, the Southern White Army that had been threatening Moscow was now able to link up with them. In the meantime, they would need to focus on governing the Southern Russian, Siberian, and Far Eastern territories.
“It is regrettable that we missed the chance to capture all the enemy leaders.”
“Indeed.”
Kolchak and Krasnov looked disappointed, but this was the right decision for now.
“Who achieved the greatest merit in this battle?”
“Mikhail Drozdovsky. He commanded the operation with tanks at the forefront as Your Highness instructed, followed by infantry.”
“What is his original position?”
“Chief of Staff. But he insisted on taking the tanks out for a spin and wouldn’t listen.”
Wasn’t that man one of the few renowned generals the White Army had? He had certainly joined the White forces during the civil war, but I had heard he supported Grand Duke Michael rather than Nicholas II for a constitutional monarchy. Shouldn’t that man be dead? I was sure he died of sepsis in 1918. Had something gone wrong somewhere and allowed him to survive?
Was the reason that damned old man had turned me into Anastasia because I at least knew a little about Russia? No, if that were the case, he would have chosen someone who actually liked Russia. I must have been an unlucky case who just happened to get caught. In any case, a man who should have died was still alive. He wasn’t a transmigrator like me. It seemed that after I possessed this body and the civil war began to spiral strangely, the snowball effect had changed events enough for someone who should have died to survive.
Right. First, let’s enter Tsaritsyn.
“Let us enter Tsaritsyn for now.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
The atmosphere in Tsaritsyn was gloomy. It made sense—this was a city that had been under enemy occupation. It must have been influenced by Bolshevik ideology. At this rate, another assassination attempt—
“Grand Duchess Anastasia! In the name of the people, I will kill you!”
Fuck. Was this an annual event now? I had lost count of how many times this had happened. The late Austrian Archduke would probably be quite envious.
“Your Highness!”
Bang!
So guns still didn’t work on me. Still, I was startled. This time it really had stung my forehead.
“W-why won’t you die? Why won’t the bullet go in!”
As expected, the same pattern. The assassin, having confirmed that she wouldn’t die even when shot, stumbled backward and collapsed. What a delightfully broken sense of plausibility. Truly entertaining.
“Unfortunately, I have no desire to share the fate of the Austrian Archduke. I prayed to the Lord. Please, I begged, just don’t let me die by gunshot. My roots are different from yours, you see.”
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
The man who had just fired at me was turned into a honeycomb by White Army gunfire and died. And the citizens of Tsaritsyn witnessed the entire scene.
The grand duchess who would not die. Grand Duchess Anastasia. The citizens who had been living under enemy occupation now saw the truth behind those rumors with their own eyes.
“Is she truly a saint?”
“Was the reason she survived in Yekaterinburg really…?”
This was going to spark another wave of rumors. The silver lining was that the White Army generals following behind me hadn’t seen it clearly. It would probably be recorded as a rumor deliberately spread later to deify Anastasia. I could already imagine the Mensheviks and various other factions—who had barely been united under the banner of crushing the Bolsheviks first—raising objections. Well, that could be dealt with later.
For now, the priority was integrating with the Southern White forces. There were people in Tsaritsyn who had entered first to prepare for our arrival. The Black Baron and Mikhail Drozdovsky. The two of them greeted me from within the Bolshevik command center in Tsaritsyn, which had been shattered by artillery fire.
“So you are Pyotr Wrangel, and that must be Mikhail Drozdovsky.”
I had seen Pyotr Wrangel in photographs once or twice. Back in my old world, before everything had gone to hell, I had enjoyed browsing historical knowledge.
“It is fortunate beyond words that Your Highness has survived.”
“It is the highest honor to meet the Saint of All Russia.”
“Where is my superior, Lieutenant General Anton Denikin?”
“The Lieutenant General is currently overseeing supply and support from the great powers in the Crimea.”
“I see.”
That man had not only failed to take Moscow but was said to have ruled with tyranny. Well, that issue was best set aside for now. What mattered was that I had finally met the Black Baron, Pyotr Wrangel. The greatest strategist of the White Army, the man who had led the Southern Russian state and tormented the Bolsheviks until the very end. And now he stood before me.