Chapter 178
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 178
Chapter Title: Eastern Offensive (2)
“Artillery, commence firing!”
BOOM! KABOOM! KABOOM!
As befitting Eastern Europe where winter came early, the sweltering summer heat had faded away, and on October 1, 1913, a chill wind began to blow.
“Advance, advance! The time for defense is over. Now is the moment to kick the asses of those Ivan bastards who dared set foot in the fatherland and drive them back home!”
“11th Army, forward! We'll dine in Kauen tonight!”
“Waaaaah!”
As hundreds, thousands of cannons spat fire, the German army's grand offensive struck across the entire Eastern Front.
“Soldiers of the Dual Monarchy! The long era of oppression and humiliation is at an end. Forget the defeats of the past and look only to tomorrow as you press forward. The spirit of our late Emperor Franz Joseph watches over us, so now is the time to show those Russians—who dare call themselves heirs of Rome—the true might of the heirs of the Holy Roman Empire!”
“Victory for Austria-Hungary! Glory to the Habsburgs!”
And on the Galician front as well, the Austro-Hungarian forces—having caught their breath—launched a simultaneous assault alongside Hötzendorf's seething resolve, joined by the German 7th Army, Bulgarian troops, and Greek forces, all targeting the Russian Southwestern Front.
Soon, screams and cheers, cannon fire and rifle shots rang out in harmony across the entire Eastern Front, composing the most horrific and gruesome symphony humanity could devise.
German 105mm and 150mm howitzers, 210mm mortars, and Austro-Hungarian Skoda 305mm howitzers punched holes everywhere along the lines, while hundreds of thousands of infantrymen advanced relentlessly, bayonets and submachine guns to the fore.
German fighters rained bullets and rockets without mercy on the Russian forces, who lacked anything beyond the Ilya Muromets bomber in the way of decent aircraft. On the ground, Ehrhardt armored cars surged forward unimpeded, spraying bullets from all sides at the Russians.
However, the Russians weren't just sitting idly by under the German onslaught.
“Your Highness the Grand Duke, the Germans have begun their offensive.”
“Faster than expected. And we still haven't fully recovered from our last defeat.”
Russian Supreme Commander Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolaevich—the Tsar's cousin—gave a bitter smile.
Of course, as the empire's greatest general and unbeaten field marshal Alexander Suvorov had said, Russia's true strength lay in its vast territories and the countless Ivans who inhabited them—so manpower was plentiful.
But could any war be won by numbers alone?
It took administrative capacity to conscript and sustain those troops.
And supplies—rifles for their hands, uniforms for their backs—had to be ample too.
Yet Russia's administration was notoriously abysmal, as everyone knew, and supplies... well, even mentioning it was painful.
“Still, we can't just cower and retreat.”
No matter what, they had to stand firm amid the oncoming storm.
This battle would decide the fate of the entire Eastern Front.
Thus, Grand Duke Nikolai and the Russian army knew their allies were struggling, but they couldn't yield this time.
“We must win this battle.”
Even if it turned out to be a Pyrrhic victory stained in blood for both sides.
“Your Highness the Crown Prince, the Russians are coming.”
“Send out the cavalry. If they've chosen to fight, it's only polite to oblige.”
“Jawohl!”
Soon, the advancing Germans clashed with the defending Russians on the plains of Poland and Galicia.
No stratagems here—just brute force crushing brute force across the battlefield, as the gods of war roared and tens of thousands of shells churned the earth.
And leading the charge, as they had for thousands of years of human history, were the warhorses and their riders.
“Charge, sons of Poland! Let the Russian oppressors know that the white eagle banner flies once more over Polish soil!”
“Niech żyje Polska!”
“Magyar Hussars, charge! We are the true hussars, truer than any other. No need to fear those ragged Cossacks!”
“Glory to the crown of Saint Stephen!”
Polish lancers, Hungarian hussars, and German cavalry charged fearlessly across the Eastern European plains, banners flying, straight at the enemy.
“Kazachonki! Raise your lances and draw your shashkas! Mother Russia thirsts for blood. Time to show these arrogant Germans and rootless Poles who owns this land!”
“Ura! Ura! Uraaaah!”
At the same time, Russian cavalry—led by the notoriously brutal and merciless Cossacks—cast aside their fears, bellowed war cries, and thundered toward the horizon filled with enemy horsemen.
CRUNCH!!
A brief silence of mere seconds passed, then the heavy warhorses of both sides collided.
Sabers clashed in showers of sparks, and like medieval jousts, long lances crossed and pierced riders' chests.
Unlike the Western Front, where trenches, machine guns, and barbed wire had rendered cavalry extinct, here on the vast open plains of the East—battlefields made for cavalry—this was a sight unique to the Eastern Front.
Entente cavalry and Russian cavalry fought fiercely, as if the twilight of the horseman was still far off. The infantry matched them, trading shells for shells and bullets for bullets in head-on tests of strength.
BOOM! KABOOM!!
“Comrade Captain, enemy shells are pouring down!”
“Damn it, what the hell is our artillery doing?! At this rate, we're done for. Everyone, retreat!”
And in this clash of raw power, victory went to the Germans, who hammered the Russians relentlessly with overwhelming firepower.
Soon the Russians—whose early fierce resistance now seemed a joke—began falling back. Grand Duke Nikolai's face grew darker in Brest-Litovsk.
“Your Highness the Grand Duke, our lines are collapsing, and our forces can't even lift their heads as they retreat nonstop. At this rate, Bialystok is in danger.”
“Lithuania?”
“No better there. Kovno is on the brink of falling, and our troops are abandoning Vilna's defense to retreat into Latvia and Belarus.”
“Hoo... I knew it wouldn't be easy, but the firepower gap is just too vast.”
The Germans alone had deployed over 300 heavy guns and thousands of howitzers. Grand Duke Nikolai's heavy artillery barely reached five fingers' worth, and his howitzers numbered only a few hundred.
Artillery power came down to numbers, so of course they were being outgunned.
Of course, knowing it was inevitable didn't ease the bitter frustration.
“Losing those guns in East Prussia hurts more than ever.”
“At least we're holding the line in Galicia still.”
“Mm. Especially Major General Aleksei Brusilov of the 8th Army? The Lord hasn't abandoned the Russian Empire yet.”
Russia's last great general, Aleksei Alekseevich Brusilov, was proving his legendary reputation right here, performing brilliantly.
He held firm against the ant-swarm onslaught of Austro-Hungarians and Entente troops, much to Hötzendorf's rising blood pressure in real time.
“So in the end, the battle's outcome hinges on whether we hold Warsaw or not. Ruzsky had better do well.”
Currently defending Warsaw was Nikolai Vladimirovich Ruzsky, newly appointed commander of the Northwestern Front.
For reference, his predecessor Zhilinsky hadn't just been sacked—he'd been saddled with Rennenkampf's disgrace of capture and stripped of his rank in court-martial, his career in utter ruin.
Tsar Nicholas II, his rage meter maxed from the Petrograd bombing and Baltic Fleet annihilation, had exploded upon hearing Rennenkampf—unlike the honorable Samsonov—had fled and been captured.
The Russian military needed a scapegoat to appease the furious Tsar, and inevitably, that fell to Zhilinsky, superior to both Rennenkampf and Samsonov.
Of course, Zhilinsky—who believed his only crime was poor subordinates—found it maddeningly unjust.
In any case, Ruzsky now bore the immense weight of holding Warsaw, and Grand Duke Nikolai worried over it.
“Unlike Zhilinsky, Ruzsky is cautious. He'll hold Warsaw steadily.”
The Grand Duke nodded at his staff's words, desperately hoping it was true.
If not, the Russian Empire would suffer another defeat.
And what came after... he didn't even want to imagine.
“General Piłsudski, do you see it?”
“I see it, Sikorski.”
October 7, 1913.
Amid cheers from Polish peasants waving liberation banners while beating straggling Russian soldiers, the German and Polish legions pushed the Russians back and reached the heart of Poland at last.
“Warsaw.”
Overcome with emotion, Piłsudski's eyes reddened as he stared at Warsaw across the Vistula, so close he could almost grasp it.
Sikorski and the other Poles felt the same.
“General Piłsudski. His Highness the Crown Prince has graciously yielded the honor of first entering Warsaw to the Polish Legions.”
“That's most kind of him.”
Piłsudski, lost in sentiment at my words, smiled faintly and nodded.
“I can barely remember the last time I saw Warsaw. Probably when I was a boy, stopping there briefly with my brother.”
As a side note, Piłsudski's brother Bronisław had plotted with Alexander Ulyanov (yes, Lenin's brother) to assassinate Alexander III, landing both siblings in Siberian exile.
Young Piłsudski himself had dabbled in socialism under his brother's influence, active in the Polish Socialist Party.
Hell, even Felix Dzerzhinsky—head of the Cheka, precursor to NKVD and KGB—was Piłsudski's school junior by a year.
The world felt awfully small.
“But you're back now. That's what matters most.”
“Mm. At long last, the dream cherished by Jan Henryk Dąbrowski and Józef Antoni Poniatowski is coming true. So before battle, our swords must be sharper than ever, our hearts burn hotter than ever.”
“I'll look forward to the Polish Legions' valor.”
That said, I could overlook Dąbrowski as Poland's hero, but citing one of Napoleon's 26 marshals—who fought France—felt a bit off, given we were at war with them.
Still, I understood Piłsudski's mood.
Nearly a century after the Duchy of Warsaw vanished with Napoleon's fall, Polish independence loomed once more. How could he not be moved?
“By the way, are the Warsaw citizens ready?”
I'd endured the quartermaster's furious nagging to smuggle submachine guns into the city in secret, all to back their uprising.
If they backed out now, I'd be in real trouble.
The Russian lines across the Vistula looked far sturdier than expected. Seizing Warsaw quickly without an uprising seemed impossible.
“No need to worry on that score, Marquis.”
But Piłsudski bared his teeth in a fierce grin, dismissing it as needless concern.
“Do you know how many uprisings us Poles have launched in Warsaw over the past century? When it comes to rebellion, Warsaw's citizens are experts among experts.”
True enough. Under Russian rule, and even in WWII with the famous 1944 Warsaw Uprising, they'd shown the world Poland hadn't submitted.
No one matched them in uprisings.
‘In a way, this is the exact opposite of that time.’
Though in 1944, Warsaw was abandoned by the Soviets and razed by the Nazi SS butchers.
But Warsaw in 1913 would be different.
“The Russians will regret ever trampling us with gun and blade.”
I nodded at Piłsudski's vow-like declaration and turned my gaze to the distant city.
Thus began the Battle of Warsaw—a fight that would decide the fate of this offensive, and of Poland itself.