March on Moscow (2)
The Allied spy. The shadow operative of the Korean Independence Army. The man who struck the Japanese Empire the hardest among all the independence fighters and helped secure the Allies’ victory. Teacher Mo Jeon-gu, the one who left behind countless memorable quotes and earned the deep respect of twenty-first-century Koreans. He was definitely supposed to have fought in the Siberian expedition at the start. Yet with that history erased, he had come straight here as a military attaché?
Other great powers were doing the same—throwing big names at this conflict without any real roots. They must be taking this civil war extremely seriously. Still, Mutaguchi didn’t exactly have the luxury to play spy right now, did he? Honestly, if not for the Imphal operation he would never have become that famous. The Japanese officials, aside from Mutaguchi Renya himself, all wore the faces of naïve diplomats, but believing that act would be foolish. Japan was dangerous. If the White Army was a slightly larger egg, those people might very well set their sights on Siberia. That was simply the kind of men they were. The moment Russia looked even a little appetizing, their military faction could run wild. So certain things needed to be clarified.
“You’re not here as a military attaché, are you?”
The Japanese diplomats standing with him seemed at a loss for words. You people really shouldn’t be this obvious.
“Ah, well… that is…”
I had heard nothing about Japanese military support arriving. They couldn’t send troops, but they still wanted to see the White Army’s condition for themselves, so they had followed the Americans? Now that I thought about it, later on—when he held the rank of major—he had infiltrated the Kamchatka Peninsula alone for reconnaissance. Could this be that moment? Had he come all this way under the pretense of infiltration only to be caught by me?
No. This was Mo Jeon-gu. The Japanese were not a voyeuristic people, he would declare, and he would examine the White Army’s situation in exhaustive detail. Wasn’t that his angle? Either way, this man did not feel like an enemy.
I gave Mutaguchi Renya’s shoulder a couple of light taps.
“Mutaguchi Renya. You have the physiognomy of someone who will accomplish great things later. Work hard.”
“Thank you, Your Highness!”
Mutaguchi Renya bowed deeply with impeccable politeness. Our Mutaguchi Renya would have to do his part. I had no idea whether the same events would unfold in this world, but judging by his record, he looked like the type who could still set off something massive even in an altered history.
Right. Time to move.
“Chief of Staff. How solidly has the White Army consolidated?”
“Yes, Your Highness. No fewer than one million eight hundred thousand troops stand ready to march on Moscow at any moment.”
Considering the actual historical state of the White Army, this was staggering. They had not even resorted to mass conscription like the Soviets. I wondered what condition the Reds were in.
“Then let’s go.”
It had already been several years since I began living in this body. I needed to end this wretched civil war as quickly as possible. And, for the sake of internal stability, I would have to control the markets and steer things so the Great Depression did not devastate us.
Soviet Moscow. Each time the White Army’s boots stepped onto Soviet soil and purged another pocket of the red plague, this satanic horde could do nothing but shriek.
Communization had been so close. Yet because of one damned princess, the nearly completed revolution was crumbling to pieces. Lately people were even saying the reforms resembled the princess’s own policies. What meaning does your Soviet even have anymore? All you do is conscript soldiers. Such whispers were spreading.
And at precisely this moment the White Army had driven a wedge into the gap. In the blink of an eye these reactionary bastards were pouring in from both south and east. Even Yudenich—who had been thoroughly beaten by the Red Army—was now aiming at Petrograd (St. Petersburg) from Finland alongside Finnish forces.
“Reactionary forces are converging from every direction.”
“Comrade Lenin, we may be able to hold off Yudenich’s army, but we cannot stop the advance on Moscow by Anton Denikin of South Russia and the Black Baron’s troops.”
“Damn it.”
Lenin ground his teeth. He bit down hard on his lower lip and tore at what little hair remained on his head. Trotsky was no different. The habitually radical Trotsky clenched his jaw, scanned the bewildered party members, and gnashed his teeth as though he still refused to acknowledge his own mistakes.
Stalin, by contrast, remained calm. He simply sat with a gentle expression, as if he had already abandoned everything.
Everything had gone wrong from the moment they executed the Tsar’s family. They had been defeated in every critical battle they absolutely had to win: the Battle of Yekaterinburg, the Battle of Tsaritsyn, the Battle of Kiev in Ukraine. Against the White forces the Reds suffered defeat after defeat; the only place they could still play the bully was in the Baltic states during their western offensive.
Stalin let out a long sigh.
Damn it all. Does this mean there isn’t even time left?
He bit his lower lip. This was all Trotsky’s fault. No—the princess’s movements were simply too fast. She advanced as though she would not even grant Stalin the time he needed to seize power.
Stalin’s original plan had been straightforward. Oust Trotsky, who had already failed multiple times. Then, using Lenin’s name, offer the great powers even more concessions in exchange for support or mediation to secure a ceasefire. After that, brand Lenin a traitor who had sold his soul to the imperialists and topple him with a fresh revolution. Finally, establish a Soviet that truly belonged to Stalin.
That had been the plan. It would cost Russia dearly, but the butcher from Georgia wanted the position even if he had to obtain it that way. Once the colonial empires collapsed later, he could simply gather strength and reclaim everything. With that goal in mind he had recruited the most capable-looking core members of the Red Army to his side and spared no enticements in winning over officers from the old imperial regime.
But the princess had moved far too quickly.
If things had reached this point, only one path remained: defend Moscow to the last, blunt the White Army’s momentum, and negotiate a truce. Excluding the great powers’ support, the Soviet foundation was still superior. They could grow from there.
Looking at this mess, even that is uncertain.
Still, it was a gamble. From the beginning Stalin had never viewed the revolution with pure optimism; he had never believed it would reach this stage. With so many useless people around that even discussing countermeasures was difficult, he was not sure the gamble itself was viable.
Yes. In any case, they had to defend.
What assets did the Soviets have left? They had to make use of them.
Although South Russia had fallen into the princess’s hands, the Soviets still controlled the heart of European Russia. That meant a large population that could still be mobilized. Therefore, this was no time to sit idle. If the princess was advancing this rapidly, they had to throw in as many bodies as possible. There was no time for idle chatter.
“Comrade Lenin, this is not the moment for discussion.”
“What are you saying?”
“The princess, driven mad by revenge, is leading the reactionaries straight toward Moscow. Shouldn’t we block her fury?”
“But Comrade Stalin, we lack weapons.”
True. Weapons were in short supply. Factories were producing them as best they could, yet it was agonizing work. In actual history Russia had been forced to manufacture weapons through other countries because of its dire conditions. The current Red Army was in even worse shape than in real history, with no outside help and a truly abysmal weapons situation. They had built some tanks, but no one knew how many could actually be fielded. They had absorbed a portion of the imperial air force’s aircraft, yet it was embarrassing to even call it an air force. The shortage of competent commanders was equally severe. Although they had recruited many imperial-era officers, that was all. The generals with real battlefield experience were either staying neutral or had fled to the White Army, unable to stomach Bolshevik tyranny.
Yes, the situation was poor, but they possessed one decisive advantage: numbers. As the White Army’s occupied territories grew, so did their own forces, yet Bolsheviks remained everywhere. That meant the Whites had no choice but to split their troops to maintain order. If the Reds concentrated everything on Moscow alone—and if Bolsheviks in the rear conducted sabotage—it would be perfect.
“Instead, we have a rotting surplus of population, Comrade Lenin. If the workers throw away their lives like chaff and hold the line until the enemy’s bullets and shells are exhausted, we have a chance.”
“Certainly.”
Bang!
Lenin slammed his fist on the table and shot to his feet. His face was flushed crimson—far redder than when he had first stepped before the people to rally the Bolsheviks and deliver his revolutionary speeches. Veins bulged in his eyes as he glared at Stalin.
“You want to throw the people at them as bait?”
“We already suppressed the strikes with the Red Army and threw thousands into the river. Their corpses are still floating and bursting along the banks—what difference does it make now?”
The Soviets had crushed the leftist workers who staged strikes with blood, reenacting a second Bloody Sunday. They had been shot down without mercy by the very Soviet that claimed to exist for the workers, then discarded in the river. Even in the original history where Anastasia had not survived, records of those massacres remained.
“The strikes had to be suppressed!”
“Comrade Lenin, be honest. If you truly wish to achieve revolution, you must sacrifice the small to obtain the great.”
Stalin spoke softly, almost whispering. To establish the Soviet, a certain amount of blood was inevitable. The blood of those who opposed it had been necessary then, and it was necessary now. To defeat the White Army they had to sacrifice the small. Simply feed the people into the meat grinder until the enemy ran out of ammunition. That was the only thing they could rely on.
Above all, this tactic would be especially effective against the princess. She was the last Romanov princess who might resurrect the empire. Collateral lines existed, but at present no one else possessed her legitimacy. If such a princess ended up slaughtering her own subjects, the Soviets could exploit it politically. Stalin had seized precisely on that point.
“If the princess stands at the forefront herself, would it not be tantamount to her killing her own people?”
To raise the White Army’s morale the princess would certainly appear. That was the Anastasia Stalin knew. She had not shown herself on the Ukrainian front, but she would definitely appear for the Battle of Moscow.
“So we are to fight the princess to the death.”
“Stalin, even numbers have limits. In the end we will still be pushed back.”
Trotsky stabbed into the conversation at the worst possible moment. He was not wrong. They would ultimately be pushed back. Their numerical advantage was large but not overwhelming.
Yet Stalin still had one card left. It was obvious the princess would take personal command for this Battle of Moscow.
“Don’t you think I know that? Comrade Lenin, the fact that the princess is coming is not merely a boost to their morale—it is also critically important to us.”
“Stalin, what do you mean?”
“When their main force pushes into Moscow, what if our Red cavalry slips behind them and captures the princess?”
Yes. It was a gamble. She had evaded assassination threats so far, but if they succeeded in seizing her, they could shatter the White Army’s center of gravity. This was, in effect, Stalin’s final plan to reverse the Soviet Union’s fortunes.
“Yes… there is a possibility.”
“We could turn the tide.”
For that to happen, the newly formed Red cavalry would have to perform brilliantly—especially the unit composed solely of men who harbored deep grudges against the Romanovs. Stalin could only hope they would do their job.
“Budyonny, the success of your Red cavalry will be decisive.”
“This time I will stake my life on capturing the princess.”
Budyonny had not forgotten the humiliation in Ukraine—the shame of being crushed by Roman von Ungern-Sternberg’s Asiatic Cavalry Division. To ensure victory he had assembled the strongest cavalry force in the entire Red Army. He refused to believe that his own horsemen, who had lived intertwined with the Cossacks, could possibly lose.
“Then Comrade Mikhail Frunze will command the Moscow defense forces.”
“Yes, comrade.”
Mikhail Frunze had gathered the remnants of Alexander Yegorov’s defeated troops and successfully repelled the pursuing White Army; that achievement had earned him command of Moscow’s defense.
And so the curtain rose on the Battle of Moscow.