The Battle of Moscow

Having joined Pyotr Wrangel’s army alongside the reinforcements, I entered every recaptured city and offered comfort to the Russian people.

“It is our failing that His Majesty the Tsar fell to the Bolsheviks’ bullets. Forgive us, Your Highness. Sob…”

Those who had remained loyal to the Tsar until the bitter end wept openly at the sight of me, begging for absolution. They blamed their own weakness for failing to prevent the Bolsheviks from murdering the imperial family.

“No. The fault is not yours. It was the self-inflicted ruin of our incompetent imperial house that tyrannized you all. On the contrary, I am grateful that you still place your faith in the Romanovs.”

I took their hands in mine and comforted them directly.

When people asked why there were no Bolsheviks near Moscow, the answer was simple. According to the intelligence Pyotr Wrangel had gathered, a great many Bolshevik forces were converging on the city. This region still lay within our sphere of influence, making it difficult for them to run wild, but in other areas the Tsar’s faithful subjects were being executed by the Bolsheviks. Still, the complete absence of the enemy here felt ominous. Like the tide retreating before a wave, they had pulled back, intending to return as a red sea and settle the matter once and for all.

We, too, had to succeed in the Battle of Moscow. I felt it instinctively. If we failed to win this engagement, the civil war might drag on until the Second World War. I had no idea how long the Great Powers’ support would last. In the worst case, we could be driven all the way to the Far East by the Soviets.

As we advanced on Moscow, my thoughts grew heavy. I still considered myself Korean at heart, yet the reality that history’s course had been altered because of me made my skin crawl. Moreover, I had already done everything I could. I had come this far to end the fighting, but staking one’s life was never easy. Especially when I remembered my previous existence. A person with no connection to Russia had become the White Army’s idol and marched all the way here. Once I started something, I needed to see it through to the end, yet the aura of death seemed to seep into my bones.

“Your Highness.”

Perhaps my expression had given me away, because Pyotr Wrangel had moved to my side to escort me.

“Black Baron.”

“This battle weighs heavily on you, I see.”

“How could it not? It will be a great bloodletting to set right the imperial family’s failures. The Bolsheviks are Russians too. They were once the Tsar’s subjects. The thought that we and they will spill the blood of our own kin troubles me somewhat.”

In truth I simply wanted to live, but one still had to speak appropriately.

“That is the nature ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of war. In the end, you must steel your heart. We will protect Your Highness without fail, secure victory, and proclaim to the world that the Romanovs remain the masters of Russia.”

Yes. We held the advantage. The board I had prepared gave the White Army far greater numbers, better weapons, and higher morale than in the original history. The Bolsheviks could not match us. The odds were overwhelmingly in our favor.

“Understood.”

“Bolshevik forces sighted ahead!”

At last we stood face to face with the Red Army of Moscow.

Near Moscow. The Bolsheviks seemed to be plotting something to raise their troops’ spirits; martial music drifted from their camp. Ah, I knew this tune well. It was a song I had heard on YouTube before the world fell apart. The Red Army was indeed powerful, and this was the song that went with it. I had even clicked “like” on the video because the melody was good. I remembered looking up when it was composed. Had it already appeared? This was around 1920, wasn’t it? Yes, the song had come out in 1920. I wondered if the lyrics were the same.

After a moment, the singing rose from among the Bolshevik ranks.

Just as I expected, the enemy soldiers were chanting in unison that the Red Army was the strongest. Bastards without roots. They hadn’t even seized the initiative in this timeline, yet after repeated defeats they still sang about ruling from the taiga to the British seas while merely defending Moscow. The phrase “from the taiga to the British seas” meant all of Russia. For Reds who controlled neither the Far East, Siberia, nor South Russia to sing such a song was the height of arrogance.

Still, I had to admit it was a good tune. A shame it did not belong to the White Army; its fate in this world remained uncertain. The lyrics still mentioned the Black Baron, so Pyotr Wrangel’s reputation must have been formidable. Thinking historically, it was ironic. They were trying to crush our spirit with a chorus. Or perhaps simply to raise their own morale. Either way, the Red Army’s song was well made. I could already hear them preparing to charge with cries of “Ura!” It was the kind of song that steeled men’s resolve before battle.

Regrettably, if this fight ended in White victory, it would become a song heard only in hell.

In response, music rose from the White Army lines as well. Some quick-witted fellow had begun it.

The White Army sang the old imperial anthem, “God Save the Tsar.” I thought the unofficial anthem from Catherine the Great’s time might have been better, but since this was the official one, perhaps it was fitting.

“People of the Soviets! Will you suffer once more beneath the Tsar’s yoke? Or will you stand together beneath the workers’ red banner? Behold! Those reactionaries, those White Army counter-revolutionaries who still pine for the past, have come to enslave you! They mean to oppress you again and impose cruel rule beneath the double-headed eagle!”

“The Military Revolutionary Council calls you to the battlefield! Fight! Let us crush them and show the world that imperialism will fall! If you retreat now, they will kill you, slaughter your families, and rape your women! Stop the reactionaries! Uraaa!”

The enemy troops on the defensive line charged toward the White Army with cries of “Ura!” What nonsense. Nothing but demagogues who could only seize power through incitement. The very men who had dissolved the Duma the moment they sensed they were losing. When one listed every atrocity from the birth of the Soviet Union to Stalin’s reign, it was impossible to understand why anyone still praised them. They massacred their own workers for disobedience. In what way were they any different from the Tsar’s time? Nikolai II had simply been exceptionally incompetent. If Stolypin had lived, the Soviet Union would never have existed.

“How long will we allow this pack of hypocrites, authoritarians, and oppressors who seduce the people with sweet words yet know nothing else to occupy the Third Rome? Soldiers ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of the White Army of Great Russia! Uproot the army of Satan and reclaim the Third Rome!”

“Uraaaaa!”

Pyotr Wrangel’s White forces advanced on the enemy defensive line with tanks at the fore, driving into the Bolsheviks.

“There is the ringleader of the reactionaries, Princess Anastasia! Kill every last White counter-revolutionary bewitched beneath her skirts! Soviet Ura!”

“God! Protect the blessed Saint Anastasia, Tsarina of All the Russias! May the Empire of Great Russia endure forever! Ura!”

The air shook with cries of “Ura!” from every direction as the White and Red armies collided head-on. No foreign troops intervened. The Americans, Germans, British, and French merely observed the battle from their military attachés’ positions. I would simply overlook the presence of Mutaguchi Renya.

Despite their vigorous chanting, the enemy’s quality was abysmal. Trotsky seemed to have reformed the army to some extent; at least they wore uniforms, though not all ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of them. Those who did wore Budyonovkas with red stars and long coats. They had apparently rushed the design while rebuilding their forces. The Budyonovka was a helmet, and the prominent red star had made Soviet troops easy targets for Finnish sharpshooters during the Winter War. It was named after the famous Semyon Budyonny. The bright color and poor design evoked Mongol attire. The uniforms looked desperately poor.

The White Army also wore coats, but they were black and the headgear was Western-style. Steel helmets had not yet appeared, yet even at a glance the difference in prosperity between the two sides was obvious. Their weapons differed as well. The Soviet troops were armed mostly with weapons captured from the Great Powers during the last war, or with Mosin-Nagants. A few Fyodorov Avtomats could be seen, but only sporadically. Our side was equipped almost entirely with improved Fyodorov rifles.

The greatest difference, however, was this:

Kurrrrrr.

We had tanks. And not some suspicious tank division that couldn’t speak Russian, but genuine Russian tank crews who spoke the language fluently. Although most were still foreign models, these were Russian A-1 tanks produced with German assistance. The “A” stood for Anastasia.

“They’ll be excellent for crushing the Reds,” Mikhail Drozdovsky said cheerfully, even though he was fighting fellow Russians. Well, they were Reds. Reds were already devils, cockroaches beyond salvation. There was no need to hold back.

The Soviets had tanks as well, but they were captured models or ones they had disassembled from British and French vehicles without proper support and rebuilt themselves. This was a decisive battle for Moscow. Although the enemy was on the defensive, they had staked everything on this fight. Both sides clashed head-on as artillery thundered.

The Bolshevik field guns were comparatively inferior. Ours, though a mixed assortment of aid from various nations, far outranged and outpowered the enemy’s. Command ability mattered, but their commanders were lacking and their weapons were vastly inferior.

“Your Highness, please withdraw. It is too dangerous here.”

“Many soldiers are dying because of me. If I cannot fight with rifle and bayonet at the front, then at least I want to remain here and raise the troops’ morale.”

Therefore, I would fight from this position. Look at those Reds. Was Lenin, the ringleader of the Bolshevik cockroaches, standing at the forefront? No. Was Trotsky? No. Even the “elite monster” known as the Butcher of Georgia lacked the stature to appear in the vanguard yet.

Of course, officially Pyotr Wrangel was our commander-in-chief. So who commanded the enemy’s defense? Mikhail Frunze. In the original history, Pyotr Wrangel had threatened South Russia until Frunze’s offensive forced him to flee abroad with soldiers and civilians alike. In other words, Frunze was the man who had destroyed Wrangel.

In the original timeline Wrangel had lacked sufficient troops and been overwhelmed by numbers. But now—

“Strange.”

“Pardon?”

“I understand the enemy also possesses cavalry. Yet I see no cavalry units.”

“They may be aiming for our flank.”

Although the advent of firearms had diminished the role of cavalry, it still existed in this era. The Bolshevik Red Cavalry was one such force. Given how seriously they regarded this battle, those units should have appeared. I wondered where they would spring from. Most likely, if an opportunity arose, they would strike when the main White force committed itself to breaking through Moscow’s defensive ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠line.