Chapter 161
Chapter 161
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 161
Chapter Title: Battle of Lake Masurian (1)
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“The Second Army has already collapsed? What the hell does that mean?!”
August 24, 1913.
Commander of the Russian North-Western Front Army, Yakov Zhilinsky, bellowed furiously, his eyes bloodshot, as if he couldn't comprehend what he was hearing.
Just yesterday, after repeated reports from Second Army messengers who had broken through the German encirclement to reach headquarters, he had belatedly ordered Rennenkampf to support the Second Army.
And now, they hadn't even held out that long—wiped out in a single day?
Some 230,000 troops utterly annihilated by a single German field army numbering fewer than 160,000?
“What the hell was that damned idiot Samsonov doing?! What kind of incompetence lets you lose 200,000 men in just a few days?!”
“W-Well... General Samsonov...”
Despite the commander's rage, the staff officers stammered, at a loss for words.
And small wonder. The Germans had just proudly announced their victory: half of the Russian Second Army killed, the other half captured. But worse, it included details on the fate of Samsonov himself, who had led the Second Army.
“General Samsonov took his own life.”
“What?”
Zhilinsky's eyes widened in shock at the blunt truth someone had spat out, eyes squeezed shut.
“Samsonov dead? Suicide?”
“Yes... The Germans found his body. He'd shot himself with a pistol.”
“Chance it's fake news?”
“Next to none. No reason for the Germans to lie about it.”
“Damn it...”
Zhilinsky grimaced and bit his lip at the report of Samsonov blowing his own brains out.
With Samsonov dead to take responsibility for the defeat, Zhilinsky could hardly keep cursing the man, no matter how furious he was over the Second Army's annihilation.
Honestly, Samsonov's suicide stemmed partly from Zhilinsky's own failure to support the Second Army in time.
Of course, that didn't mean Zhilinsky planned to shoulder the blame himself.
“How many Second Army survivors from the German onslaught?”
“Just under 10,000. General Sergei Sheydeman is trying to pull them together, but...”
Even they were scattering or deserting in real time.
“Hoo... Tell Sheydeman to regroup whatever he can and support the First Army.”
“Yes, sir.”
It was harsh on the Second Army survivors who had barely escaped the Germans' merciless assault, but with the Second Army shattered, the Germans would target the First Army next.
And if the First Army fell too, the North-Western Front—already down over a third of its strength from the Second Army's wipeout—would see its ambitious push into East Prussia end that very day.
Along with Zhilinsky's head.
That much he had to prevent, come hell or high water.
“And order Vasily Flug to bring the Tenth Army and hurry to support Rennenkampf's flank.”
“Yes, Commander.”
The staff officers saluted sharply, eager to escape the stifling atmosphere, and hurried out one after another. Zhilinsky, his face weary, slumped into his chair and lit a cigarette.
“Damn it. If Stavka hears this, the Tsar won't let me off easy.”
No matter how good-natured the Tsar, he wouldn't forgive defeat.
Especially a catastrophe that would echo through history.
So Zhilinsky had to halt the German advance here, prevent them from racking up more kills.
Only then could he salvage the loss and save his own neck.
Rumble rumble─
“The battle just ended, and we're straight into the next one? I wish we'd had at least two more days' rest.”
“Don't worry, Wolf. Once we kick the Russians' asses out of Gumbinnen and chase 'em from East Prussia, we'll have a breather.”
“That'd be great, Uncle Dietrich. I'm sick of corpses.”
August 25, 1913, near Eylau in East Prussia.
Dietrich, riding in a truck with his unit toward the new battlefield, chuckled at the words of Wolf, the youngest in the group.
But even as he smiled, his face was grim.
Dietrich was glad his side had won big and he'd survived, but he couldn't shake the sight of the Russian corpses filling the marshes and forests.
Nothing like the heroic war stories his father—who'd fought in the Franco-Prussian War—boasted about daily.
For Dietrich, who'd lived far from war's reality, it was a brutal shock.
No tale to tell the kids, that's for sure.
“Heard from the signals guys: the Western Front's worse. Trenches and machine guns everywhere—thousands dying daily.”
“Ugh, glad we're on the East.”
The Russian Eastern Front troops lacked even rifles; some fought with clubs and axes, machine guns be damned.
Dietrich closed his eyes in the jostling truck, grateful for his luck.
“Look, a village.”
Soldiers craned their necks out at someone's shout.
Dietrich saw it too. Black smoke rising—not a good sign.
“I know that place. Abschwangen—nowadays Tysino.”
“How?”
“Grandpa lived nearby. Gone now, but at least he died without seeing war.”
Dietrich and the others nodded solemnly.
No one wants to watch their hometown trampled and burned by the enemy.
“All halt!”
As chatter filled the trucks, the company commander's order stopped the convoy before Abschwangen.
“Everyone out. Search the village. Russians seem to have pulled out, but stay sharp.”
“Yes, Lieutenant Heinrici.”
Dietrich grabbed his rifle and followed his comrades off the truck into the eerily somber village, under Lieutenant Gotthard Heinrici—who'd one day be a famed WWII German general.
“No people around.”
“Probably evacuated.”
East Prussia had seen mass evacuations before the Russians arrived.
Many stubborn folk stayed, refusing to abandon lifelong homes—but not in this village, apparently.
“Fan out and check.”
“Right, Uncle Dietrich.”
Dietrich split from Wolf, slowly patrolling the village.
Buildings charred black, but nothing else amiss.
“Ivan bastards torched it fleeing.”
“No loot, so they took it out on the village.”
Dietrich nodded in agreement with the anti-Russian curses.
Given German views of Russians, it was hardly surprising.
“Hey, Dietrich! Let's head back.”
“Yeah. Buildings are toast, but no other issues...”
“Aaaahhh!!”
“Wolf?!”
As Dietrich and the Germans turned for the trucks, figuring no need for more searching, a youthful scream echoed from a village corner.
Click!
Instinct kicking in, Dietrich and his men chambered rounds and rushed toward the cry.
Wolf was fine, just trembling on his butt on the ground.
“Damn, you scared us. Wolf, what happened? See a ghost?”
“Th-There... In that pit... P-People...”
Dietrich followed Wolf's shaking finger.
A pit. Reeking of gunpowder, rot, and worse.
“Peter, cover me.”
“Got it.”
A chill in his gut, Dietrich edged forward, sweating.
“Gasp?!”
Peering in, he nearly dropped his rifle.
“Fuck... Thought everyone evacuated...”
They hadn't.
Abschwangen's folk were right there—charred beyond human recognition, dumped like trash in the pit.
“Urk! Bleeech!”
“Oh God...”
The Germans who'd followed retched or cried out in horror and fury.
Lieutenant Heinrici, arriving late, pinched his nose and scowled at the sight.
“Damn filthy Scythian bastards.”
“Lieutenant, we can't leave these poor souls to rot.”
“No one deserves that. Everyone, grab shovels.”
Dietrich and the men nodded, fetching shovels and digging graves in the village cemetery.
They tenderly buried the still-warm Abschwangen villagers.
“Wish we had a chaplain.”
“Can't be helped. Reported to HQ—hope they get a proper funeral later. But a tiny village like this... Hope Gumbinnen's okay.”
Heinrici, Gumbinnen-born, lit a cigarette with a worried frown as they prayed briefly over the new graves for the massacred villagers.
It was all they could do.
The road ahead was long.
Heart aching with pity and rage at war's tragedy, Dietrich glanced back at Abschwangen repeatedly as he climbed aboard the truck.
For the kids waiting at home, he had to end this damned war sooner.
Vroooom─
“These damned mayfly bastards keep coming.”
That same day, Russian First Army commander Rennenkampf paced headquarters anxiously, glaring at German recon planes buzzing overhead like they owned the sky.
“Can't we shoot them down?”
“They don't hit easy, and we're low on ammo as it is...”
“Damn it! Nothing goes right!”
Samsonov too.
The fool botched the Second Army and killed himself, leaving Rennenkampf to take innocent flak from Zhilinsky for not sending support in time.
'Then tell me to hurry up and send it!'
Zhilinsky knew better than anyone he couldn't abandon Gumbinnen blindly without knowing the Second Army's position.
Shifting blame like this was outrageously unfair.
“General Rennenkampf. Scout report: Germans advancing north through the Masurian Lakes.”
“Tch, south after all.”
Rennenkampf snapped his tongue, snapping to the map.
As expected: Germans, having crushed the Second Army, raced straight for the First.
“At least we have time to build defenses.”
The First Army's "mistake" of leaving the Second to its fate had bought time to fortify against the advancing Germans.
Samsonov and his men would've been appalled, if they knew.
“Flug's Tenth Army?”
“Standing by.”
The Tenth would hit the German Eighth's flank as planned once they attacked.
So Rennenkampf dared the Eighth: come and get it.
Not like with the Second Army—this time wouldn't be easy.
'I'm not Samsonov. Not like him!'
Muttering reassurance, Rennenkampf glared at the map's toy soldiers.