Chapter 163
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 163
Chapter Title: Battle of the Masurian Lakes (3)
"......What did you just say?"
Russian Northwest Front Commander Jacob Zhilinsky turned back to his staff officers with a blank, idiotic expression, as if wondering what on earth he'd just heard.
But the staff officers looked just as grim and speechless, their faces filled with despair as they stared at their dazed commander.
"A field army-sized German force has landed at Memel. Scout reports suggest they're aiming for the rear of our First Army."
"Ugh......!"
Zhilinsky let out a bizarre groan and clutched the back of his neck.
It was the price of ignoring Memel in their bloodshot obsession with advancing into East Prussia.
Of course, the Russians had plenty of excuses for that.
For starters, as anyone could see on the map, Memel was in an awkwardly remote position far from the main axis of advance. For Russia, the losses from attacking it would outweigh any gains from capturing it.
A port only had value if you could sail out to sea from it.
But the Germans' Baltic Fleet had controlled the Baltic Sea since the war began, so there was no point in the Russians bothering to attack Memel when they couldn't gain anything from it anyway.
This wasn't much different from actual history, where the Russians briefly occupied Memel in early 1915 before withdrawing.
Though true to form, they used the excuse of local resistance during those few days to massacre civilians and go on a looting spree.
"Is that what you call a report?!"
But to Zhilinsky, none of that historical context mattered.
What mattered was that the enemy had appeared in the rear of the First Army, which was already preparing to withdraw.
"What the hell have you idiots been doing while the Germans were landing at Memel? Just standing around watching?!"
"Commander, but......"
"You useless bastards! Worthless rats that do nothing but devour our rations!"
The Russian staff tried to offer excuses, but Zhilinsky, furious to the tips of his hair, unleashed a torrent of curses and shouts at his incompetent subordinates who had sat idly by as the Germans landed in their rear.
Naturally, the staff officers' faces turned ashen as they became the sudden dumping ground for his rage.
And who could blame them? How were they supposed to know the Germans would land at Memel?
Aerial reconnaissance was impossible with German planes dominating the skies, and the Baltic Fleet that should have checked the German navy was holed up in Kronstadt!
"Troops! I need troops to stop the Germans!"
Zhilinsky was too panicked by the catastrophe unfolding in his rear to care what his subordinates thought of him.
But as he racked his brain for a way to salvage the situation, the German Ninth Army had already crossed the Neman River and was marching toward the rear of the Russian First Army.
Boom! Kaboom!!
August 30, 1913.
To support the German Ninth Army targeting the rear of the Russian First Army, the German Eighth Army launched a full-scale assault.
"Everyone, get ready!"
Dietrich and his squad were hunkered down in the trenches, faces tense with anxiety as they awaited the officers' charge order.
Weeeeee───!
"Charge!!"
"Waaaaah──!!"
Whistles blew from all directions, followed by a massive roar as German soldiers surged out of the trenches and charged toward the Russians.
Dietrich gripped his rifle so tightly he nearly dropped it, bellowing something between a shout and a war cry as he sprinted forward like a madman.
Rat-tat-tat! Rat-tat-tat-tat!
"Argh!"
"Hit the dirt!"
But the German barrage hadn't wiped out the Russians in their trenches.
The survivors grabbed the PM M1910 heavy machine guns—Russia's version of the Maxim—and sprayed bullets wildly at the charging Germans.
German soldiers died like paper cutouts, swift and all too easily.
Dietrich was lucky; he dodged the flying lead and dove into a shell crater, emerging unscathed. But some of his squadmates weren't so fortunate.
"Gahk!"
"Matteus!"
A comrade he'd shared hardships with took a bullet to the throat and collapsed.
Fellow Eighth Army soldiers who'd fought side by side spilled their guts as they tumbled across the ground.
Yet the Russian machine guns kept spitting fire mercilessly, like cold machines.
It was a horrific sight, but Dietrich had grown numb to it.
Whether that was misfortune or a mercy, he couldn't say.
Vroooom──
As Dietrich caught his breath in the crater, the familiar drone of propellers filled the air overhead.
The Eagles.
German Imperial Air Service fighters.
"＃@$^#!!"
As Dietrich stared up blankly at the colorful planes, an incomprehensible Russian scream pierced his ears.
He peeked out.
Whoooosh───Boom!
German fighters strafed the trenches with machine guns, fired rockets, and dropped bombs to shatter the Russians' morale.
"Woo hoo!"
"Even the fat-ass pilots have graced us!"
"Attack! Attack!"
With the Russians in chaos and their machine guns falling silent, cheers erupted as German soldiers charged the enemy lines again.
Dietrich crawled out of the crater and dashed toward the now-quiet Russian trench.
"Ugh......"
Then a groan came from inside, and a Russian soldier staggered to his feet.
He reached for the machine gun the moment he spotted the onrushing Dietrich, but
Bang!
Dietrich's trigger finger was faster.
The Russian toppled without a scream. Another nameless survivor grinned approvingly at Dietrich before shoving the heavy Russian machine gun aside.
With that, German soldiers poured into the trench, subduing the disoriented Russians.
Many Russians tried to fight back only to have their skulls crushed by rifle butts and entrenching tools, brains splattering as they fell, or turned into sieves by submachine guns. Those who didn't want to die like dogs threw down their weapons and raised their hands, begging for mercy.
Soon the gunfire died down. All that remained were Russian POWs trudging away and corpses littering the battlefield.
"Hoo...... survived another day somehow."
Exhausted in body and soul, Dietrich slumped against the trench wall, splashing water from his canteen onto his dirt-caked face.
Then a familiar voice called from beside him.
"Huff...... huff....... Uncle Dietrich!"
"Wolf, you're safe!"
Wolf, separated at the start of the charge, approached with a weary but bright face. Dietrich chuckled in relief at the sight.
Bullets didn't care about rank or age.
Harsh, but that was the reality Dietrich had seen in war.
"That was rough this time. Mr. Matteus is gone too......"
"Our guys are hitting the Russians' rear. They're desperate too."
A cornered rat will bite a cat. The Russians were no different.
Wolf, though, seemed indifferent to the Russians' plight; he just wanted the lakeside battle to end quickly.
"I wish the Russians would just run or surrender already."
"Yeah, it'll be over soon enough."
Dietrich pulled a precious cigarette from his pocket and lit it.
And as he said, the battle's outcome came soon after.
"It's over."
Rennenkampf muttered with a utterly deflated face, too drained even for anger.
The moment Germans appeared in his rear, the Eighth Army's all-out assault began, and his precarious defensive line collapsed in an instant.
The Russians lost Insterburg, and Rennenkampf fled Gumbinnen with his staff, scrambling onto the retreat route.
It was less an orderly withdrawal than a frantic rout.
And that was plain from the weary Russian soldiers shambling along beside him.
"Adjutant, how far have the Germans advanced?"
"Sorry, General. I don't know. We sent scouts, but they haven't returned......"
"Caught by the Germans, probably."
Or they deserted.
The latter was more likely, but Rennenkampf didn't voice it.
Admitting it might drag his already dismal mood into an endless abyss.
Vroooom───
"Enemy planes!"
"Everyone down!"
As Rennenkampf sighed heavily in gloom, the maddening propeller drone returned—again—with more German aircraft.
Russian soldiers, traumatized by brutal lessons from the Imperial Air Service, broke formation and dove to the ground.
Vroooom─
"?"
But nothing happened.
The German pilots, as if mocking them, didn't strafe, bomb, or grenade-drop. They simply flew leisurely overhead and climbed away.
"Those flying Prussian pigs are toying with us now."
Rennenkampf and his men, forgetting rank for the moment, ground their teeth as the planes vanished into the sky.
But reality was so bleak it dried up their tears.
To retreat, they'd abandoned most guns and supplies—even rifle ammo was scarce—so no furious counterattack was possible.
Rennenkampf sighed even heavier and ordered his men to move out.
But his ordeal wasn't over.
"General Piłsudski, we've spotted Russians moving thirty minutes ahead!"
"Direction?"
"Southeast."
"Retreating toward their escape route."
"That's what I think. But it doesn't seem like an ordinary unit."
Piłsudski, who had landed at Memel with the Ninth Army and was operating independently with his mostly cavalry Polish Legion, listened intently to the scout's report.
"The enemy's size is unusual. We've only seen hundreds or thousands before, but this retreating force looks like at least ten thousand."
"Ten thousand? Could it be Rennenkampf's main body?"
Polish officers traveling with Piłsudski buzzed at the suggestion.
If the force ahead really was Rennenkampf's First Army main body, it was an opportunity they couldn't miss.
To have a voice after the war, the Polish Legion needed achievements now—and capturing an enemy commander was the best kind.
"If we're lucky, we could capture or finish off Rennenkampf."
Piłsudski smacked his lips and gripped his reins tight.
"A chance to flatten the Germans' noses. No one wants to miss that, right?"
"Of course not!"
"Then let's go, children of Poland! Hya!"
Piłsudski and the Polish Legion bared their teeth ferociously and spurred their horses toward the presumed Russian main body.
But what was this?
The Poles weren't the only ones to spot the retreating Russians.
"General Mackensen. Air force reports a moving Russian force. By size and banners, it's identified as Rennenkampf's main body."
"Hoh, we can't miss a chance like this. Or can we, Seeckt?"
"Of course not, General!"
Hans von Seeckt, Mackensen's chief of staff and eternal partner, replied energetically to his gleaming-eyed superior.
"Assemble all the corps cavalry. If short, saddle up those lazy noble brats too! We're off to claim Rennenkampf's head!"
Mackensen's cloak billowed as he issued the order. Seeckt and the staff saluted silently—no words needed.
They couldn't let the 17th Corps miss the Eighth Army's greatest prize.
Thus, Mackensen's German cavalry and Piłsudski's Polish cavalry raced across the Masurian Lakes region toward a single goal.
"Achoo!"
Rennenkampf, suffering like a dog far from home, remained oblivious.