Chapter 160
Chapter 160
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 160
Chapter Title: Tannenberg (3)
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“Samsonov is requesting support?”
When Samsonov's 2nd Army found itself trapped in the German encirclement and plunged into a desperate crisis, Rennenkampf calmly stroked his mustache despite the urgent report from the 2nd Army messenger who had barely managed to reach Gumbinnen.
The messenger momentarily lost his words at the commander's utterly unperturbed face, but soon pressed on with a desperate voice.
“Yes! If we don't send reinforcements soon, the 2nd Army will be annihilated!”
“Hahaha! Annihilated? Isn't Samsonov just overreacting?”
“Pardon?”
The messenger stared at Rennenkampf with a blank expression, as if to ask what on earth he meant.
Where exactly had this man been listening—through his ears or somewhere else—to everything the messenger had shouted until his mouth went dry?
Yet despite the messenger's utter bafflement, Rennenkampf merely sipped his jam-laden tea with perfect composure.
“It's probably nothing more than panic from the German counteroffensive. Besides, the Germans couldn't possibly have sent that many troops south.”
Rennenkampf's 1st Army was currently targeting Königsberg, the heart of East Prussia.
And the German 8th Army, despite repelling Russian assaults in a series of battles, had been forced to pull back forces due to severe manpower shortages.
As far as Rennenkampf could figure, the Germans couldn't commit a large force to attacking the 2nd Army somewhere south—not when they needed every man to defend Königsberg.
“In fact, the Germans have deployed most of their army toward Königsberg to obstruct our 1st Army's advance. So either Samsonov misjudged the enemy numbers, or your report is exaggerated—one or the other.”
Of course, the one guilty of misjudging enemy strength was Rennenkampf himself.
The foe he believed had been positioned to block him was merely the German 1st Cavalry Division, acting as bait to hold his attention.
'What the hell is this guy talking about? Then what are the Germans encircling the 2nd Army?!'
It was bewildering to the messenger, who had witnessed the encirclement firsthand and barely fought his way north through it.
“Commander, sir, the report contains no exaggeration whatsoever. The 2nd Army's plight is a matter of minutes and seconds!”
“If Samsonov were truly in dire straits, the Northwest Front HQ would have issued orders to support the 2nd Army by now.”
And the final order from Commander Zhilinsky to Rennenkampf had been to hold Gumbinnen and press the attack on Königsberg—nothing more.
Of course, that too was a misjudgment.
Currently, Zhilinsky and the Russian Northwest Front HQ were utterly unable to gauge the battlefield situation, hampered by German interference and the Russians' woeful communications. They didn't even know precisely where Samsonov's 2nd Army was.
“Besides, what if we dispatch support without HQ approval and Gumbinnen—our hard-won gain—ends up in peril as a result?”
“G-General!”
“Tell Samsonov to send a 'proper' report to HQ first. That's the only counsel I can offer.”
Rennenkampf rose and departed, as if washing his hands of the matter entirely.
The messenger's world went dark.
The Northwest Front HQ was, naturally, even farther away than the 1st Army—in Minsk, Belarus. Even riding flat out, everything would be over by the time he arrived.
'Ah... I wanna desert.'
But he couldn't abandon his comrades, who were desperately pinning their hopes on reinforcements.
In the end, the messenger let out a heavy sigh and set off for Northwest Front HQ.
Praying against hope that he might arrive in time.
“...Is it finally over?”
Contrary to the messenger's desperate wish, Samsonov and the Russian 2nd Army were already teetering on the edge of total collapse.
No word from that bastard Rennenkampf, and no proper contact with Commander Zhilinsky either.
The Germans pressed on relentlessly, like bloodthirsty vampires who wouldn't be sated until every last Russian was slain.
“Commander, you must escape now, while there's still time.”
In the grim atmosphere, one staff officer spoke with urgent earnestness, arguing it was better than capture.
But Samsonov's reply was ice-cold.
“Hah, escape? The 6th Corps under Alexander Blagoveshensky, who tried to carve open a retreat route, has already been shattered by Mackensen's cavalry. Just where do you expect me to flee?”
As he said, the Russian 6th Corps in the rear had dispatched a detachment to breach the encirclement and clear a path for the main force. But Mackensen, who was leading the 17th Corps in an offensive nearby, had spotted it and immediately unleashed his cavalry to sever the escape route.
The situation had been too urgent for orders from Crown Prince Wilhelm or Ludendorff, who effectively commanded the 8th Army. Yet the flexibility of the German mission-type command structure permitted it—and the results were evident in the Russians' downcast faces: a resounding success.
“If we send troops to distract the Germans...”
“Quiet! Are you suggesting we feed innocent soldiers to the Germans as bait so we can slink away alive?!”
“...It's unavoidable. Someone has to be sacrificed, don't they?”
“I believe it's for the motherland's sake to survive by any means and scheme for the future, rather than endure the disgrace of German captivity.”
Samsonov let out a disbelieving scoff at his staff officers, who so calmly proposed tossing subordinates to the wolves for their own survival.
Where on earth had these nobles pawned off their responsibility and duty, scheming only for their own skins?
But whatever Samsonov thought, this was the harsh reality of Russian nobility—and of the Russian Empire itself.
In stark contrast to the German and British nobles, and even royals, who led by personal example on the front lines, some high Russian nobles like the young Yusupov Duke were still lounging in luxury back in the capital, shielded by power and wealth.
“General Samsonov, we must make a decision before it's too late.”
“...I need time to think. Everyone, out.”
“Yes, Commander.”
His head awhirl, Samsonov furrowed his brow and dismissed the staff.
Once alone, he chugged harsh liquor straight from the bottle.
He simply couldn't bear this bleak reality without drowning his frustration in it.
“Hahahaha... Lord, where on earth did it all go wrong?”
Was it the reckless advance across the border, despite preparations so woeful that soldiers were issued clubs instead of rifles, all to meet some timetable?
Was it plunging boldly into this swamp- and marsh-choked hellhole, drunk on the first battle's triumph?
Or was it failing to spot the German trap and moronically watching the encirclement snap shut?
“...Perhaps the war itself was the mistake from the start.”
But regrets now changed nothing.
He had lost. The Russian 2nd Army had lost.
Over 200,000 soldiers would perish miserably, without even graves—like the Teutonic Knights slain in the Tannenberg battle centuries ago nearby—and the survivors would be hauled off to POW camps.
“My incompetence doomed the men.”
Samsonov picked up his Nagant revolver from the desk.
“Having dragged affairs to this ruin, how could I shamefully cling to life and face His Majesty?”
Muttering to himself, he slowly pressed the muzzle to his temple.
And pulled the trigger without hesitation.
Bang───!
On August 23, 1913—three days after the Russian 2nd Army fell into the German trap.
With that single gunshot, 2nd Army Commander Alexander Vasilyevich Samsonov took his own life.
The Battle of Tannenberg was over—and with it, a red alert dawned for the entire Russian Northwest Front.
“Report from the 8th Army! Russian 2nd Army annihilated! A great victory!!”
“Just as expected!”
Falkenhayn clenched his fist and let out a triumphant shout at the victory dispatch from the Eastern Front. Cheers erupted throughout Supreme Headquarters.
The German generals and staffers grinned broadly, clapping each other on the back in mutual congratulations, while Chancellor von Bülow and I nodded to one another, celebrating the triumph at Tannenberg.
Ah, of course, the actual Tannenberg where Poland crushed the German knights at Grunwald back in 1410 was a ways off from the battlefield—and the Germans had tagged the name onto this one anyway.
“Congratulations on the victory, Your Majesty.”
“Indeed. My eldest boy pulled off something grand this time.”
Kaiser Wilhelm II wore a smug grin at Crown Prince Wilhelm's feat—as if to say, 'Hmph, that's my son.' A far cry from original history, where he'd checked Hindenburg out of fear he'd eclipse his authority.
Well, who checks a successor for racking up merits in this era? And it's not like the Crown Prince would suddenly start chanting some fascist drivel at his father just for becoming a war hero.
“By the way, Falkenhayn, they say we took nearly half the Russian 2nd Army as POWs this time?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. Once their commander died, they laid down their arms on their own. Ah, that reminds me—there's something regarding that for the Foreign Minister...”
“Me?”
I tilted my head in puzzlement, and Falkenhayn leaned in to whisper, making it clear this wasn't for general ears.
“Among the captured Russian POWs were some from the Minister's homeland.”
“Ah...”
Now I got it.
Because among the Russian POWs from Tannenberg were Koreans.
Unlike the dubious “Koreans of Normandy,” the “Koreans of Tannenberg” had solid evidence: righteous fighters and soldiers who'd battled Japanese forces alongside Russians near the Tumen River during the Russo-Japanese War. When Korea was effectively handed to Japan, they'd thrown in with the Russian army.
'And beyond them, some four thousand Koreans from places like the Maritime Province served in the Russian army during World War I.'
“The Crown Prince and Chief of Staff Ludendorff wanted the Minister's thoughts on what to do with them.”
“I appreciate it, but we can't just release them or grant special privileges willy-nilly. Duty and personal ties must remain separate.”
“Well said.”
Their plight was tragic, of course.
But unlike the Korean Free Government I personally backed, these Tannenberg Koreans were bona fide enemy combatants who'd fought our German forces with the Russians before capture.
If I stuck my neck out rashly, I'd hand the Junkers a political weakness on a platter.
“For my part, treating them properly as POWs is more than enough.”
Instead, once the war ended, we could send them to the Free Government or let them return home safely.
That was the extent of what I could do for them.
“Speaking of which, Nicky—who even renamed his capital because he hates us so much—must be wearing a long face after this defeat.”
As Falkenhayn and I conferred, my father-in-law—face flushed from a bit too much drink—chimed in.
“Still, we can't let our guard down yet. Rennenkampf's 1st Army is still out there, isn't it?”
Chancellor von Bülow spoke up, and everyone nodded in agreement.
Moreover, the Russians would surely be scrambling into belated action by now.
Tannenberg was won, but the true fight to purge the Russian menace from East Prussia was only beginning.
“By the way, Falkenhayn. What's the status of Herringen's 7th Army?”
“All preparations complete; they're set to deploy to the Galicia front shortly. But the Austro-Hungarian situation is graver than anticipated.”
The Austro-Hungarian forces under Conrad von Hötzendorf's personal command had dashed all hopes, squandering their initial victory with fresh defeats.
At this rate, one almost pitied Hötzendorf—brilliant at planning, but saddled with the Austro-Hungarian army in execution.
“Even so, once the 7th Army engages in earnest, the Galicia front should stabilize somewhat.”
“Sigh... Hans, I hope you're right. I just can't trust the Austro-Hungarian army anymore.”
Small wonder the Kaiser felt that way. The Austro-Hungarians weren't just botching Galicia—they'd bungled the Serbian front too.
Potiorek's second offensive against Serbia from the Serbian front had collapsed yet again.
And the Serbs, victors twice over, were now counterinvading Austro-Hungarian soil across the river.
Though to be precise, it was Russia strong-arming Serbia into this overreach—so per original history, they'd soon retreat under Austro-Hungarian counterattack.
“In any case, events unfolding per plan is a pleasure. Ah, yes—Tirpitz Admiral. How fares 'that operation'?”
“Proceeding flawlessly, Your Majesty.”
The Navy Minister nodded firmly at the Kaiser's query.
“Prince Heinrich's Baltic Fleet will sortie imminently.”
“We even postponed the Paris bombing planned for the navy's sake. I expect results as grand as this victory.”
Tirpitz bowed deeply, committing it to memory.
The war raged on—across land and sea alike.