Chapter 164
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 164
Chapter Title: Battle of the Masurian Lakes (4)
Mackensen and Piłsudski discovered Rennenkampf's main force in retreat just past noon.
“?”
The two cavalry divisions kicked up clouds of dust as they charged toward the Russians, only to yank their reins and halt abruptly.
And there, beneath the scorching summer sun that refused to yield even as August drew to a close, they spotted each other.
“Hey, Zekt. Are we in the 1700s? Or maybe the Napoleonic era? Why the hell do I see Polish cavalry right in front of me?”
“It's 1913, General Mackensen. They appear to be the Polish Legion.”
“Ah, the Polish volunteers. Right, they landed at Memel with Eichhorn's 10th Army.”
“Yes. I hear they've been operating independently as a detachment, but it looks like they've come to find and annihilate the Russians, just like us.”
“Well, damn...”
Mackensen stroked his mustache with keen interest.
He knew well the old legends of Polish cavalry, epitomized by the Winged Hussars.
The German army itself had acknowledged their prowess since the Prussian days, forming Uhlan regiments from Poles to great effect.
'This just got interesting.'
As a cavalryman himself, Mackensen felt a surge of rivalry toward the Polish riders before him.
Not a clash of swords, perhaps, but a competition all the same.
And he had no intention of losing.
“We can't let the Poles snatch the game we've already cornered. Right, men?”
“Yes, General!”
The German cavalry roared in response.
Their eyes burned hotter than the sun beating down, fueled by a refusal to yield to the Poles.
“We didn't come this far just to let the Germans steal our glory.”
Piłsudski and his Polish cavalry felt the same—they couldn't yield the massive prize of the enemy commander.
We are the heirs of the Winged Hussars, the Polish cavalry.
The Swedish Hakkapeliittas and Ottoman Sipahis knelt before us. Even a century ago under Napoleon, we shook Europe with our fame.
Cossacks or Hungarian Hussars as rivals? Fine. But Prussian cavalry? Third-rate at best.
Lose to them, and we'd have no face to show our ancestors.
“Sons of Poland, raise your lances! Rennenkampf is ours!”
“Wiwat Polska!!”
Led by Piłsudski, the Polish Legion charged the Russians' flank with a battle cry.
“Full charge! Glory to the great Fatherland, Deutschland!”
“Long live His Majesty the Emperor!!”
Mackensen, refusing to let age dull his fire, drew his sword with a thunderous voice and gave the order. The German cavalry bared their teeth and lunged at the pitiful prey.
Thus, the two forces surged toward the Russians, neck and neck.
“Cavalry! Enemy cavalry—!!”
Rennenkampf and the Russians screamed, their faces drained of blood.
“Pol—Polish cavalry! Mounted Poles incoming!”
“German cavalry approaching from the opposite side!”
“Form square! Form square!”
“Load the machine guns first!”
The sudden appearance of massive cavalry forces on both flanks sent the Russian soldiers into blind panic, filling the air with screams and shouts.
The age of cavalry had long waned with automobiles and airplanes, but the terror of a heavy horse charge lingered.
For the already demoralized Russian 1st Army, crumbling in fear took less time than boiling instant noodles.
“Commander, orders!”
“Uh... uh... uhhh...”
Bad news for the troops: Rennenkampf was no better off.
Faced with the wave of charging cavalry, he just flapped his lips soundlessly.
'Damn it! Poland's been gone for ages—why Polish cavalry now? And German cavalry? What the hell is happening?!'
His mind raced with curses, but it helped nothing.
“Cossacks, assemble!”
“Stand still and we're dead! Move! Move!”
Amid the army-wide chaos and terror, some Russians snapped to and mobilized.
Cossack cavalry, raised on Ukraine's vast steppes with horses their whole lives.
Only three regiments left, halved by defeats—but they knew inaction meant death, from instinct and experience.
“Charge!”
“Ura──!!”
They chose a countercharge against the enemy horse.
“Arghhh!”
“Die!!”
Lances crossed; riders tumbled from saddles with spears in chest or gut.
Most were Cossacks.
Brave as the Germans or Poles, but outnumbered against the equine tide.
That wave crashed past the Cossacks onto the Russian infantry.
“Slay every Ivan in sight! Saint Casimir's blessing rides with us!”
“Vengeance for our grandfathers slain in Warsaw, you Tatar dogs!”
“The Poles are stealing all the credit! Press on!”
“Rennenkampf! Find Rennenkampf! Capture him and it's promotion plus leave for sure!”
The Polish Legion hammered the disorganized Russian front. German cavalry trampled fleeing infantry, thrusting lances mercilessly.
Like blood-mad ogres, Polish and German riders butchered scattering Russians, bellowing Rennenkampf's name.
“There! Rennenkampf!”
“He's fleeing! Get him!!”
But as Germans and Poles vied to kill the most Russians, Rennenkampf fled on horseback with his aides.
The cavalry wheeled to pursue, but thousands of Russians blocked their path.
“Aaaah! Aaaaaah!”
“I don't wanna die!”
Not defending him—just panicked chaos.
Even so, the human flood stalled most riders, German and Polish alike.
“Hyah! Hyah!”
“Hey, Polish friend! Looking winded—why not leave Rennenkampf to us?”
“Ha! In your dreams! Back off, Niemcy!”
Not all halted.
Some, nationality be damned, bulled through the melee to chase the fleeing commander.
“Huff! Huff! You damned horse-thieves! Stay back!!”
For fleeing Rennenkampf, it was hell.
Thus unfolded a bizarre pursuit: Rennenkampf versus German-Polish cavalry amid Masurian Lakes.
“Damn it, how long will those bastards chase?!”
The grueling chase wore down the Russians first.
Exhausted from hasty retreat, men and mounts alike.
“Almost got them. Push a bit more!”
“Get lost!”
Whish—
A nameless Russian officer swung his saber desperately as fresh German-Polish riders closed in.
“Scram!”
Bang! Bang!
“Kyaak!”
A German officer fired his Luger; the brave Russian tumbled screaming from his horse.
“You... gah?!”
Another Russian aimed his Nagan revolver at the German—but a Polish officer's saber sent him rolling ignominiously beside his comrade.
“Commander, ahead! Ahead!”
“Wh-what...?!”
As the German nodded thanks to the Pole, Rennenkampf's flight hit its end.
Blind panic had led them to a sheer cliff.
“Hiiing!”
“Aaaah!”
“Commander?!”
Russian officers yanked reins in despair.
But Rennenkampf, leading the flight, couldn't.
His horse, momentum unchecked, plummeted off the cliff with a pitiful whinny before he could stop.
Splash—!
The horse plunged into the deep lakeside, spraying water.
“Hah... hah... help!”
Unlike the horse, Rennenkampf lived.
He'd leaped free at the last second, clinging to a tree on the cliff.
Crack!
His luck ran out.
The frail tree couldn't bear his weight.
Snap!
“N-no!”
It tore free with an ominous crack.
“Gotcha, bastard!”
But as gravity pulled him lakeward like his horse, hands seized his arms.
The German and Polish officers from before.
“Damn, you heavy son of a bitch. What'd you eat to get this fat?”
Grunting, they hauled him up, refusing to let go.
“Suka...”
Captured alive—unlike Samsonov—Rennenkampf's face twisted in dismay.
Thinking of the disgrace awaiting him back home, drowning might've been kinder.
Thus fell the curtain on Rennenkampf's escape—and the Battle of the Masurian Lakes.
“To the glory of the cavalry!”
“To the cavalry!”
Battle over, celebration time.
German and Polish cavalry, bonded by rider kinship, shed rivalry like a dream, clinking mugs arm-in-arm.
“Here, drink up! Brought some choice Polish vodka.”
“Ha, perfect. General Piłsudski, pour away!”
Mackensen and Piłsudski, saving face by sharing the capture, laughed with officers from both sides, passing drinks.
Tensions between Germany and Poland lingered, but for now, they were battlefield brothers—and beer lovers.
“Prost! Ein Prosit der Gemütlichkeit!”
The Oktoberfest toast echoed, marking its 1910 centennial.
No fest this year, thanks to war.
“Germans and Poles guzzling booze till they flop together. Unthinkable back in the day.”
“Couldn't agree more.”
As all sang drunkenly in mangled accents, the captors—German and Polish officers—clinked glasses.
A rare positive from the war.
Or maybe just German beer and Polish vodka.
[Zzzt—breaking news.]
As revelry toasted expelling Russians from East Prussia, DRR radio crackled.
[Our proud Kaiserliche Marine has crushed the Russian Baltic Fleet. Germany's triumphs extend from land to the Baltic Sea!]
“Looks like our Navy pals didn't idle while we rampaged.”
The German officer muttered, then turned to the Pole as if just remembering.
“Oh, right—we never introduced ourselves. Lieutenant Fritz Erich von Manstein.”
“Major Władysław Sikorski, Polish Legion.”
Manstein and Sikorski.
Future giants of their nations smiled and toasted.
Their side dish: Russia's defeat.