Chapter 950: Chapter 8 The Gradual Offensive Begins

November 14, Melania First Front Army Headquarters.

General Eugene glanced at his watch: “It’s time to begin.”

Several days ago, the regiment-level attritional combat had achieved complete success. The Ante Army occupying Luki Town had repelled the Prosens’ feeble counterattack without even needing support from the Tank Destroyer forces.

Thus, today, an even larger-scale attritional operation would commence. Eugene was deploying a total of ten regiments to cross the frozen Oder River, under the cover of rapid concentrated firepower.

Eugene glanced at the Front Army Artillery Commander and sighed: “Attacking with just ten regiments feels like going back two years.”

Two years ago, Eugene commanded no more than ten regiments in total, pressing forward with everything he had.

The Front Army Chief of Staff echoed: “For an assault at the Front Army level, it’s indeed rather rudimentary. With this troop count, logistics pressure becomes minimal, allowing us to attack while accumulating supplies.”

The Front Army Military Bishop added: “With such troop numbers back then, they’d be completely depleted in a flash, leaving no trace behind. I’m still skeptical of this infiltration strategy–won’t it devolve into an endless war of attrition, ultimately overexerting the forces we’ve painstakingly restored?”

Eugene: “Then let’s hope Vasily’s psychological warfare proves effective.”

——–

East Bank of the Oder River, one of the ten regiments deployed for the attack.

Uncle Vanya was comforting the newly replenished young recruits: “Don’t worry, haven’t you heard? A friendly unit already crossed the river days ago. Not only did they capture the city, but they repelled the enemy’s armored division counterattack with negligible casualties.”

“And that was just a single regiment–one regiment against an armored division! The Prosens’ elite forces are finished! When we go over, it’ll be easy to wipe them out!”

One of the new recruits asked, “Uncle Vanya, how many Prosen bastards have you killed?”

Uncle Vanya revealed the buttstock of his submachine gun: “See the scratches on this? I mark one scratch for every enemy I kill. There are 35 scratches now.”

“That’s not a lot!” one of the young recruits remarked nonchalantly.

Uncle Vanya’s expression hardened immediately: “The ones I’ve killed aren’t today’s rookie bastards–I’ve killed elite bastards. In the outskirts of Abawahan, my squad defended a house. In the end, everyone sacrificed themselves, leaving only me.”

“The Prosens sneaked up. I sprayed them, taking down two. One rushed in; I drew my knife, wrestled him for quite a while, and stabbed him multiple times before I finished him.”

“Midway through the struggle, he even snatched the knife and stabbed me a few times too. Look!”

Uncle Vanya opened his thick military coat, revealing a scar on his side.

“See? This is the scar that damn Prosen bastard left me! That guy was terrifyingly strong–he could crush you little bean-sprout kids single-handedly!”

Upon seeing the scar, the new recruits fell silent.

The terrifying mark radiated the horrors of the battlefield.

Just then, Uncle Vanya heard the rumble of tanks.

He immediately looked toward the sound: “They’re here–our heavy tank regiment is here for support.”

Suddenly, Uncle Vanya froze, staring at the direction of the sound intently.

The curious recruits followed his gaze and saw a tank with a red flag on its antenna. A tank operator emerged from the turret, his upper body adorned entirely with medals.

“Wow, those medals on the tank operator’s chest could serve as armor!”

Uncle Vanya suddenly punched a recruit’s shoulder: “What operator! That’s Marshal Rocossov! Quick, form ranks! Show some spirit! Don’t look like wilted vegetables!”

“What? That’s Marshal Rocossov?” The recruits all turned their heads toward the tank, their curiosity outweighing any sense of reverence.

Uncle Vanya: “You brats, do you know at Abawahan, in the most critical moment, the Marshal personally led infantry to launch a counterassault and held back the enemy offensive!”

“He is the greatest military commander since Suvorov! Even Bagration, who personally led the charge at Austerlitz, ranks behind him! Form ranks! Stand tall! Lift your chins! Show some presence!”

Only then did the recruits form ranks, standing with chests out and heads held high, saluting the tank.

The tank approached under everyone’s gaze.

The captain climbed out from the Marshal’s position and said to Vanya and the others: “Relax, it’s a dummy. This is a psychological warfare tactic from the Psychological Warfare Command!”

Only then did Uncle Vanya notice that there was indeed something off about the figure on the tank.

His first reaction was anger: “How could you disrespect the Marshal in this way?”

The tank captain explained: “To intimidate the enemy and reduce casualties. The Marshal personally approved this, and it’s executed by his deputy officer. If you must know, the Psychological Warfare Command is a direct subordinate of the Marshal!”

Upon hearing that it was the Marshal’s direct department, Uncle Vanya’s anger melted away, but he still voiced his concern: “What happens if the dummy is damaged? The enemy might think the Marshal has fallen, wouldn’t that cause trouble?”

The tank captain reassured him: “Don’t worry about that. We’ve rehearsed countless times for such scenarios! In the eyes of the Prosen bastards, the Marshal is invincible–untouchable and immortal! They’ll be scared out of their wits!”

Uncle Vanya still seemed like he had more to say, but the artillery barrage commenced.

Countless shells thundered overhead, crashing onto the far bank of the river.

The tank captain: “Alright then, time to move. The brief artillery preparation isn’t going to last long–we need to seize the moment to cross the river.”

With that, the Rocossov II tank roared back to life, its loudspeaker starting to play music.