The Battle of Moscow (4)
After pressing the offensive for some time, crushing and shaking the Red Army, the White Army pulled back slightly. The Black Baron believed Moscow was already in tatters and the Red Army was collapsing like a sandcastle, so he intended to use this breathing room to reorganize before launching a full-scale assault.
Yet the Reds’ camp was in an uproar.
“The Reds are acting strange.”
“A pity. The Ohrana we embedded has been discovered, so we have no intelligence on their internal situation.”
The Ohrana had infiltrated Moscow to spark an uprising, but unfortunately it had failed. Was it because the citizens of Moscow still favored the Bolsheviks? No, that wasn’t it. Control over the city’s population was stricter than expected. The Cheka managed Moscow’s citizens with ruthless efficiency; any suspicious movement led to immediate execution and public hanging.
“Perhaps they, too, have sensed the end.”
“Are the surrendered men saying nothing?”
“They escaped during a quiet moment, apparently.”
“Did you conduct ideological verification?”
“Yes. Nine out of ten called Lenin a son of a bitch. The last one said he couldn’t.”
I had ordered ideological verification for every defector. After making them voice negative opinions and curses about Lenin, I had them repeat the same insults. I also demanded various reasons for their surrender. Half of it had been little more than a test.
Yet there really were those who could not bring themselves to curse him. Even as it sank, Lenin’s honey pot must still have tasted sweet.
“Those men will have to be sent to Siberia later, or executed as examples.”
“Understood.”
Hardcore Reds could not be tolerated. Most would likely be shipped to Siberia, but high-ranking ones had to be made public examples. I had let Stalin go once before, but it would be excellent if he were captured in this battle. Catching him together with Lenin and Trotsky as a complete set would be perfect.
Then the familiar American gentleman appeared again.
“I say, Princess.”
“What is it this time, Fighting Cock?”
Ah, that Patton fellow. Even if I was a princess in name only, wasn’t this level of rudeness excessive? Fine. What had he come for this time?
No, seeing how the man had chased Ungern and crushed the enemy, I could guess his purpose. He wanted a free ticket to the Moscow Red-crushing survival show.
“I am not Fighting Cock. I am Patton.”
But this was not Ukraine. The Reds had scraped together every last soul they could call “the people” to defend Moscow, as if to prove they could still field an army of this size.
Surely he wasn’t thinking of charging with a mere handful of American troops behind Ungern again. Even Ungern himself had been ordered to bypass Moscow and intercept any Bolsheviks attempting to slip away to the rear.
The Ukrainian front had simply been lucky. Above all, Moscow had to be recaptured by our own hands. Patton’s Americans could not even be counted as volunteers. For the victory to have meaning, the White Army itself had to take Moscow.
“Recapturing Moscow is my destiny and a goal the White Army must achieve on its own. Do not speak of participating in the battle with a mere handful of American troops.”
Incidentally, the Germans had also sent a request asking if they could join the Battle of Moscow. It was suspicious how a defeated nation kept trying to insert itself. The British, for their part, seemed occupied blocking Red Army attacks in the Baltic sector and could not join us.
“I am a veteran of the Great War. Why would I not understand that? I am merely asking for the sake of what comes after.”
After? What was he hoping for?
“Are you preparing for when they flee Moscow?”
“It’s Ungern. I cannot lose to that man.”
Hmm. Refusing too firmly might be unwise. Given his personality, it would seem rather pitiful if they achieved nothing at all. Perhaps I should let him hunt the escaping Bolsheviks together with Ungern.
“Then please handle any Bolsheviks attempting to flee from Moscow.”
“Hahaha. I shall do so!”
Look at him running off in excitement. Was it really all right to let him go like that? For a moment I considered calling him back. If I, the Russian princess, were to take a side, it would be Ungern’s. Not that man.
I turned my eyes outside the tent and gazed toward distant Moscow. Pillars of fire rose from the shelling and bombing, and the sight left me with a strange feeling. In actual history the White Army had never occupied Moscow. In the end the White Army failed and vanished into the annals of history. Surely there would be no sudden divine intervention here that prevented us from changing history and handed victory to the Reds. The weird old man had sent me here precisely because he hated the Reds.
No matter what happened, the result would not change.
As the days passed, more and more soldiers deserted from the Red Army, either joining us or simply running away. When we dropped leaflets from planes stating it was acceptable to return to their original homes without surrendering to us, the number of defectors increased further. The tide could not be reversed. Once we finished reorganizing and launched the general offensive, we would win.
I was trying to relax with that thought when the Reds proved even crazier than expected.
“The enemy is advancing.”
“Why now?”
Had those madmen finally lost their minds now that their end was near? Men wearing caps with red stars really were pouring out from the Moscow defense lines, surging toward our army like a red wave.
Still, that was as far as it went. With our superiority in firepower, our defense was more than sufficient.
Ratatatatatatata! The MG08 machine guns brought from Germany shredded the red cockroaches.
I could not understand why they were carrying out such mindless charges. The reason was unknown, but Mikhail Frunze’s ambitious offensive was failing utterly.
At first I had been briefly startled, wondering if these lunatics had truly gone insane. But the hastily assembled Red Army, dragging poorly trained ragtag troops, was no match for the White Army that had secured multiple victories and possessed outstanding combat experience. There was a difference in weapon quality, and even if it came to bayonet melee, the White Army would simply massacre them.
Yet why this madness? This was a question for Drozdovsky.
“What do you think, Chief of Staff?”
“Since defeat is certain if they remain as they are, they may simply be throwing everything into one last gamble. They probably want to try something before more troops desert.”
Yes, that made sense. Which meant something had happened that would cause the enemy to desert.
“And?”
“If not, then something must have occurred inside Moscow. They are launching this reckless charge to hide it.”
“Internal discontent has erupted. In that case…”
If it had erupted internally, it meant an uprising. Whether it had been suppressed or the embers still remained, it signified that Moscow was collapsing.
“An internal struggle must have broken out among the Bolsheviks.”
“That seems highly likely.”
A dispute had broken out inside the Communist Party. It probably wasn’t an open uprising in Moscow. Then the conflict would be over whether to negotiate with us or fight to the end. That could have triggered a bloody purge within their ranks. So Mikhail Frunze had charged forward to conceal it.
Before long, as expected, Frunze’s offensive failed to pierce the White Army’s defensive line at all. Men who had defended with nothing but numbers could hardly mount a proper attack. In Ukraine the small number of British troops had made an attempt feasible, but here it was impossible.
Some time later, a Red carrying a white flag approached from the direction of Moscow.
“Comrade Stalin proposes that we end this meaningless civil war here and resolve the matter peacefully through democratic elections.”
Are you kidding me? That was the funniest joke I had heard in either of my lives. The Soviets ending a meaningless civil war and holding democratic elections? It could not be that the reason we had thrashed them until now was to set up today’s punchline.
Just hearing it was absurd.
“If someone heard this, they would think the Bolsheviks were the victims.”
It was the image of the weak begging the strong for mercy after a beating. Anyone would think we were the villains. These were the Reds who had tried to overthrow Russia, after all.
“It is not even worth considering. It is clearly a desperate struggle to survive.”
“Those Soviet Reds are the ones who dissolved the Duma to seize power for themselves. You must not accept this, Your Highness.”
Both Pyotr Wrangel and Mikhail Drozdovsky were negative. I had no intention of accepting it either. The Reds were literally liars, full of pretense.
Strange. These were not the sort of men who would come out with something like this.
No. ‘Comrade Stalin proposes…’ Something must have happened to Lenin. That was why Stalin had sent an envoy. That man speaking of democratic elections? It was absurd coming from the bastard who claimed power grew out of the barrel of a gun. He was no fool, so he could not truly be thinking of elections. It was a ploy to buy time.
Even if they bought time, the situation would not improve. There was no faction anywhere willing to support the Bolsheviks. Who would help men treated like cockroaches by the entire world?
Yes. Then there was only one possibility.
“They are trying to run away.”
“Pardon?”
Even if they held out to the end here, there was no path to victory. There would be Bolsheviks prepared to fight to the death, but looking at the current state of the Reds, an uprising in Moscow would leave them with nothing to say. They must know it would be difficult to stop the Red Army coming from the Baltic. So they would use those forces as a screen for their escape instead.
“By any common sense, they would not seriously make such a proposal. These are the Bolsheviks who dissolved the Duma because they wanted to devour everything themselves. Elections now? Moreover, they are long past the stage where they could be confident of winning an election.”
Even if their brains had been addled by our punches and they were seriously considering elections, who would support the current Bolsheviks? How many people would risk their lives to give power to a Soviet that was grinding the people beneath its heel?
They were far more stained with authoritarianism and violence than in actual history. They would definitely not meet a good end.
“Then…”
“In the end it is a trick to buy time, and there is no one anywhere who would help them stop us.”
“Then it is an escape.”
Yes. As always, those men were quite familiar with running away. They were fleeing to seize another opportunity, to plot for the future. This escape would essentially mean the defeat of communism. Were they all right with that?
Well, that was that. Something had definitely happened to Lenin. That was why someone who appeared to be one of Stalin’s subordinates had come.
And I had no intention of letting the Soviet messenger go free. Even at this moment they would be looking for a way to escape. Sending the Red back to reassure them before striking immediately was one option, but pressing the attack right now would be better.
“Something must have happened to Lenin. Interrogate that man.”
“Yes!”
“P-Princess Comrade. I know nothing—”
That son of a bitch. Calling who a comrade?
Even if I had become a dead princess, I had zero desire to be called “comrade” by the likes of a Red. Because of those Red bastards the twenty-first century had been turned into a wasteland. The only good Red was a dead Red.
“How dare you call Her Highness the Princess ‘comrade’ here! Drag him away immediately!”
“We cannot give them time. Launch the offensive at once.”
Stalin must be steeling himself to escape somehow. You bastard Stalin. Where do you think you’re running to? I absolutely refuse to let that happen.
As Mikhail Frunze’s attack was dying down, we launched our own major counteroffensive. This time I moved personally with the soldiers, firing a rifle alongside them and directing the army directly. Just like during the Yekaterinburg battle.
“God, protect the Tsarina and the White Army!”
“Great Russian Empire, ura!”
The White Army’s uniforms had dark green tunics and black trousers. At a glance it looked like a green wave bordering on black surging through the red star’s defensive line and swallowing Moscow.
With the failure of Mikhail Frunze’s offensive the Bolsheviks had lost even their ability to defend. Moscow, which had opposed us with numbers rather than fierce fighting from the beginning, gradually saw its defensive line shaken by the White Army’s fierce assault. The moment had come.
I stood with the White Army and shook the enemy. It would work now. Mikhail Frunze’s last attack had failed, and they had nothing left.
As expected, the enemy side began to hesitate. They stopped shooting, stood in awkward postures, and whispered among themselves.
“Your Highness! It’s dangerous!”
“Comrades! Ignore the princess’s words! Quickly kill those reactionary bastards!”
“Do not become their meat shields! Surrender and join the White Army!”
“Shut up!”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Perhaps because there were so many deserters, the political officers following behind to prevent flight opened fire on me.
“Your Highness!”
The White Army camp cried out in alarm.
Unfortunately for them, I did not die. It hurt, but my body did not seem to have been penetrated. The bullets could not even tear my uniform; they simply fell to the ground in a shower.
“They said she was a saint… She really is a saint.”
“She must be under God’s protection.”
The enemy soldiers stared at me in a daze. Even the political officers who had been shooting stood with their mouths agape, eyes trembling.
“W-Witch.”
Witch? How rude.
And my certification as a saint caused an immediate change even among the enemies who had been fighting me. Bang! The soldiers who had been charging out of fear of the political officers’ guns turned their barrels and began shooting the political officers instead.
The Red Army, which had turned back to a desperate defense against the White Army, collapsed in an instant. The red flags came down, and the imperial tricolor bearing the double-headed eagle filled the battlefield.