Chapter 188

April 24th, 1941

Warsaw, the capital of Poland – Allied Eastern Front Command

The operation's commencement date coincidentally became Claudia's birthday, April 25th.

Today is the day before the execution of Operation Liberation.

To conceal the date of the offensive from the Soviet Union, there will be no speeches this time.

We will simply reveal everything we have prepared.

To prevent them from predicting the direction of our offensive, the Mobile Army Group, which will play the key role of the hammer in this operation, has been waiting in Warsaw.

I was seeing off Colonel General Ewald von Kleist, who would lead the vanguard in this offensive, and the generals under his command: Heinz Guderian, Erwin Rommel, Walter Model, and Hans-Valentin Hube.

These men were the spearhead among the illustrious general officers of the German Army.

“You are all men of incomparably superior ability to me, and you have all proven your qualifications until now.”

They are the best hand Germany can play against the Soviet Union.

I paused for a moment, made eye contact with all the generals, and then spoke again.

“This operation came from the best brains of the Allied Forces, including General Manstein and all of you.

I don't expect it to be perfect, but I have no doubt that it is the best option.”

There was only one thing I, who could not dare to match even a fraction of their military ability, could do for them.

“No matter the result, no matter what unforeseen incident occurs, I trust you. So please, trust your own judgment.

If you determine a breakthrough is impossible, you may stop. If you judge that the sacrifice of your subordinates will be too great, then by all means, retreat, even if it means giving up all the land you've occupied.”

Just to give them the trust that the German Army of the original history never received.

“Whatever the result, I will take full responsibility.

My popularity is a bit too high for my head to roll just for covering for you all.”

The general officers let out a light laugh.

I laughed along and shook hands with Colonel General Ewald von Kleist.

The general who suffered headaches because of the reckless Guderian and Rommel during the Sickle Cut in the original history…

“I know it won't be easy, but I trust you will do your best.”

“I will meet the expectations of the government that has entrusted me with this heavy responsibility.”

Next, Guderian grinned and grasped my hand.

“I suppose in this very battle, we can show what has blossomed from what General Lutz prepared and you, General, brought to completion.”

“Hahaha, you can look forward to it.”

At Guderian's words, I glanced at Kleist, then lowered my voice and added.

“Please go a little easy, so you don't give General Kleist too much of a headache.”

Guderian let out a hearty laugh.

Next was Erwin Rommel.

He grinned and extended his hand to me.

“Choosing you, Minister, was my best decision.”

“Haha, General Rommel.”

Rommel, who had readily accepted my request during the election, had in return reconciled with Manstein, at least on the surface, through my arrangement and was now entrusted with the spearhead of the most important offensive.

He was full of vanity and hadn't gone through the General Staff course, so he definitely had his limits, but if placed in a position where he could best display his ability, there was no general like him.

“You gave France and Britain quite a surprise, so I expect you will do so again this time.”

“I will do my utmost to meet your expectations, Minister.”

Next, I faced the general who was smiling faintly, wearing a monocle.

“General Model.”

“Minister Schacht.”

We looked at each other without a word for a moment, then shook hands.

The role he was given would be crucial again, and it would be the most intense mission.

I watched him for a moment before speaking.

“Where there is Model, there are no problems.”

Seeing General Model's eyes widen, I let out a small laugh.

“That's the word going around where you are stationed, I hear.”

“Haha, I didn't realize it had reached the ears of the Minister of Defense.”

I was about to say something like,'It's because I have a great interest in you, General,'but I held my tongue when Claudia's facial expression came to mind.

Spain, Italy, the Western Front, the Eastern Front.

In my most difficult moments and when Germany was in the greatest danger, he had always been the best shield I could rely on.

What words could such a man need?

“I believe in you, General.”

No long speech was necessary.

General Model replied with a salute.

General Hube, who had been watching General Model and me with a warm gaze, also shook my hand.

This man was a close friend of General Model's.

At the same time, he was a master of armored warfare and defensive warfare who had proven himself through great performances many times.

“I trust that you will successfully carry out the role you've been assigned, General Hube.”

The man who would undertake the most important role alongside General Model.

“Haha, I will strive to meet your expectations, Minister.”

And Clemens's direct superior officer.

I almost told him to take good care of Clemens but managed to stop myself.

Then, as if he had read the words I'd held back, General Hube grinned.

“My friend Model always says that one must treat their subordinates as if they were their own children. I am the same, Minister.”

“…Thank you.”

Everything we had prepared until now was for this moment.

“I trust that you will all show your best judgment. If there is anything you need, please request it at any time.

I, too, will do everything in my power from the rear to fulfill your requests.”

The generals and I faced each other one last time and saluted.

---

April 24th, 1941

The Eastern Front, near the Soviet Army encampment of Lviv (modern-day Lviv in Ukraine)

Having frantically completed a month of training, the soldiers of the Soviet Army boarded a train and headed for the front.

Everyone had an anxious look on their face.

They had watched other young men from their hometowns get conscripted month after month, and now they too had been conscripted by the Party, trained, and were on their way to be thrown to the front lines.

A man, anxiously clutching his Mosin-Nagant rifle, spoke to the soldier next to him who was clutching his own rifle in the exact same way.

“Comrade, where are you from?”

“From Sterlitamak.”

“Where is that?”

“The Ufa region.”

“Ufa?”

At the string of questions, the other man's face grew slightly annoyed.

“Near the Ural Mountains.”

“Ah.”

There was no way for people living in the vast Soviet Union to know the names of all the cities within their country.

And the General Secretary's astounding administrative ability was being used to draw military force from all corners of the massive Soviet Union.

“And you, comrade? Where are you from?”

“From Stalingrad.”

“You're from a big city.”

The conversation died.

Only the clattering of the train echoed, and after a short silence, the man from the Ural Mountains spoke again.

“Comrade, what's your na—”

But before he could finish his words, a terrible, ear-scraping noise sounded as their bodies were thrown to one side.

“Ugh!”

“Aaaaargh!”

“What the, fuck!”

The men packed into the cramped train faced a disaster of falling, tumbling, and crushing one another.

“Aaaargh, my arm!”

“Fuck, move your gun! My leg!”

“Aaaaargh!”

Amidst the pandemonium in the carriage, the terrible shriek of metal scraping on rails echoed as the moving train braked with all its might.

The man from Stalingrad screamed as another man's gun got caught on his arm, crushing him, and was only freed from the pain after kicking the back of the flailing fool with all his strength.

“Hah, hah, fuck! Damn it! What the hell was that!”

The surroundings were still filled with nothing but pain, groans, screams, and angry shouts.

The man from Stalingrad tried to find the man from the Ural Mountains, the one he had at least exchanged a few words with, but he froze.

“Ugh, ughhhhhh!”

The unlucky man, who had bitten his tongue when the train suddenly stopped mid-sentence and was then crushed senselessly by others, was writhing in agony, blood pouring from his mouth.

Blood streaming from his tongue, the man from the Urals reached out his hand.

The man from Stalingrad flinched and recoiled from it, and upon seeing frustration and blame cloud the other man's eyes, he involuntarily turned away.

Why did I back away? Was it too horrible?

Am I a coward?

Only then did he shake his head and try to help the man from the Ural Mountains, when a noise reached his ears.

Boom!

Goosebumps spread down the man's spine.

Boom!

He wasn't the only one who felt it, as the train car, once filled with angry shouts, groans, and curses, fell silent for a moment.

Boom!

Now he could tell for sure.

An unknown explosion was getting closer.

“Fuck, we have to get out!”

“Move, you son of a bitch!”

Fortunately, the man from Stalingrad happened to be near the door, and as the other men began to clamor and push each other, he quickly threw it open and got off the train.

Boom!

It was getting closer and closer.

Behind him, the carriage was still filled with all sorts of curses and screams, but the man from Stalingrad was the first to see the bombers approaching the very car he had just been on.

And along the path the bombers were taking, he also saw the scene of all the other carriages exploding and burning.

“Bo-bombing! Get out, quick!”

At the man from Stalingrad's shout, the already chaotic carriage descended further into pandemonium.

“Get lost!”

“I-I'm going to live!”

While a lucky few managed to escape, the man from Stalingrad moved away from the carriage.

At that moment, the lead bombers seemed to have dropped all their bombs, and now even larger bombers began to carpet the area with them.

The tracks, precariously laid over terrain already ravaged by countless bombings and repairs, along with the already damaged carriages, exploded and went up in flames.

Just before the carriage he had been riding in exploded, the man from Stalingrad saw the man from the Ural Mountains reach his hand out the door.

The man from Stalingrad was ultimately unable to take his hand.

The unheld hand burned black in the flames.

Along with the many lives inside who had created pandemonium, pushing and cursing each other to survive.

---

After receiving a report that a squadron of German bombers had been dispatched in the direction of the approaching train.

Dispatched to the scene with trucks, General Enrique Líster had to return with no more than 100 survivors.

The 500 reinforcements on the train were reduced to a mere military force on paper.

Even though this was not his homeland, Líster trembled with a sense of powerlessness and the cruelty of war.

Unlike in Spain, the German Army did not bomb cities or execute prisoners of war.

But the German Army, which had been just starting to rearm and operate experimentally when he faced them in Spain, was now complete.

This German Army mercilessly tormented the Soviet Army.

They were using every means possible to inflict cumulative damage on the Soviet Army.

Seizing air superiority and whittling down the Soviet Army with surprise bombardments and bombings day and night was almost a cute tactic by comparison.

As if there were spies among the locals in the Soviet-occupied territory, they would frequently launch bombers as a train arrived, incinerating the soldiers and supplies on board.

For the Soviet Union to launch an offensive in this situation was absurd.

Thus, the plan General Zhukov devised was to defend against the enemy's offensive, inflict damage, and then launch a counterattack.

Easy to say, but was it even possible?

On top of that, after the General Secretary's repeated emphasis, Zhukov had forbidden frontline units from retreating and had threatened to execute the entire families of anyone who surrendered.

As they waited for a plan to repulse the enemy and achieve victory once the offensive began, the people continued to die.

Why on earth were they continuing this kind of war?

To protect the General Secretary's power?

The war, started by declaring war on Finland and Poland with the belief that the great Union could easily devour them, had already consumed 4 million lives.

Four million. Four million.

In the horrifying three-year civil war in his homeland, fewer than 500,000 had died, yet now it was 4 million.

The Union for the people, the only successful communist nation.

The place he had sought as if in escape, for revenge, after failing to protect his country and his people.

He was no longer naive enough to blindly believe in the romanticism of communism.

Nor had he come to the Soviet Union to devote himself to communism and the people.

He came to the Soviet Union simply because he would have gone anywhere that offered him a chance to vent the frustration, resentment, and hatred that had built up after seeing the communism he had dedicated his life to fail so miserably in Spain.

But because of that, now that the veil of hatred that had blinded him had been partially lifted, he was tormented by skepticism.

If it was the communist paradise to which he had devoted his life, the Soviet Union should have at least existed, on the surface, for the better lives of its people.

But now, what on earth was the Union, the people, fighting for?

How was one to explain the act of joining hands with the empire of fascists and militarists to win a war that began by trampling on small nations?

Líster arrived in Lviv with a troubled expression, got out of his car, and watched the new recruits being handed over to Army Group South.

Nowhere on the shocked faces of the new recruits, who had seen their comrades burned alive without even getting off the train, was there any pride in fighting for the Union of People.

A man wearing the rank insignia of a Lieutenant General approached him.

“Good work, Comrade Líster.”

“I was only carrying out my mission, Comrade Vlasov.”

“I see.

I have confirmed the handover, so you may go.”

No proper conversation took place between the two men.

Líster ordered his unit to return, then glanced at the man, Lieutenant General Andrey Vlasov.

Although the man had become a hero of the people by inflicting considerable damage on the German Army during the withdrawal of Army Group South, Líster found him unsettling.

“A regrettable sacrifice.”

Vlasov spoke as if feigning sorrow over the disaster the new recruits had suffered.

But to Líster, his eyes did not seem to hold sympathy or pity.

Rather, it was the gaze of someone strengthening his own conviction.