Early in the morning, the infantry patrol team of the southern border guard on the Eastern Front of the German Wehrmacht stumbled upon something that sent their minds reeling. They discovered that the Soviet troops across the river were gearing up for an attack. Such detailed attack plans are generally not so easily unveiled, but there it was, laid out before the Germans like a scene from a film. The Soviet preparations were conspicuous; they were distributing munitions haphazardly, positioning their cannons under the cover of some trees, and more soldiers than usual were seen cooking in pots. To the Germans, these activities should have been carried out stealthily under the cover of night, but here they were, happening in plain sight with a startling lack of discretion.
"Contact the headquarters of the army group immediately and report our findings!" a division commander ordered upon receiving the patrol's report. "Position the nearby No. 3 assault gun in a defensive stance. Alert the air force to carry out reconnaissance."
"Also, consult with the army group headquarters about getting support from armored units!" another staff officer added. "The reconnaissance team has confirmed that the enemy is amassing tanks. I'm afraid our assault guns and anti-tank cannons won't be enough to hold them off."
The commander of the border defense division slammed his hand on the table in frustration. "Are the Soviets out of their minds? Attacking at this hour? Couldn't they have stuck to their drills and afternoon tea? What madness is this?"
Despite his furious outburst, the reality remained unchanged. The Soviet forces were visibly gearing up, the air thick with the scent of impending gunpowder. Unlike the haphazard Soviet preparations, the German side quickly organized itself. Soldiers took up positions in the first-line defensive trenches, machine guns were set up in concealed spots, anti-tank artillery nestled within the bushes, and fortifications near several key bridges were reinforced.
German soldiers, their helmets covered with recently issued gauze-like mesh textiles from China intended for camouflage and to prevent reflections, were barely visible in the V-shaped blast-proof trenches. Only their heads peeked out, well-concealed by branches and weeds, blending seamlessly with the surrounding terrain.
A sniper found an ideal spot under a large tree on a nearby rise. His assistant, leaning against the tree, periodically scanned the open areas on either side with a telescope. A box of rifle-caliber bullets lay next to him. The sniper adjusted the wind speed meter and fine-tuned the scope on his rifle meticulously. His face was smeared with black camouflage paint, and he wore a patched-up camouflage suit, making him appear as part of the earthy backdrop.
"God, be merciful," he prayed quietly, adjusting his rifle's aim. "Let us be invincible, and in your greatness, guide our hands. I will deliver these souls into your embrace—even if that embrace includes the fires of hell. Amen."
"Can't you come up with something new to say?" his assistant muttered, rolling his eyes.
Ignoring the comment, the sniper continued his ritual, his movements practiced and precise. He peered through his scope across the river, focusing on the stirring enemy lines.
Some five kilometers behind him, on a relatively flat hillside, a group of German soldiers was busy setting up several Frederick rockets. These mobile artillery units, known for their agility and devastating firepower, were considered ideal for providing quick artillery support.
"Have the firing angles been determined?" an officer called out to his adjutant.
"Sir, all preparations are complete," the adjutant confirmed, saluting. "We've mapped the area down to the meter well before the Soviets arrived."
The rocket launchers began adjusting their launch angles, the machinery whirring—a harsh yet oddly satisfying sound, a symphony of civilization and technology that, to the Germans, sounded like the prelude to victory.
Several kilometers further back, on a vast lawn, the propellers of two brightly painted FW-190D fighters spun rapidly. Equipped with wing bombs and auxiliary fuel tanks, these fighters were prepped for a complex mission. Nearby, more planes lined up.
"Eagle 1 ready for takeoff!" a pilot radioed the ground control tower, his voice muffled by his oxygen mask. "Assigned to patrol potential combat zones, engage Soviet aircraft, and strike valuable ground targets."
"Eagle 2 ready! Same mission as the lead aircraft," his wingman confirmed.
"Understood, but do not cross the temporary border before the enemy opens fire. Exercise restraint. Copy?" the tower instructed.
"Eagle 1 copies!"
"Eagle 2 understands!"
After these exchanges, the command came through: "You are cleared for takeoff!"
One by one, twenty fighters roared down the runway, lifting into the sky to form an imposing formation over the airfield.
"Squadron leader, are the Soviets out of their minds?" a pilot joked over the intercom.
"Silence! Never underestimate the enemy," came the stern reply. "Stay sharp. I don't want to lose a single aircraft today. Long live the Führer! Into the clouds!"
"Roger that! Long live the Führer!" the pilots responded in unison.
Meanwhile, on the Soviet side, a stern-faced officer stepped aside, giving the floor to a political commissar.
"Comrades, the motherland calls upon you! In the face of these vile Germans, who have driven us out and massacred our brethren, the time has come for retribution. Let us avenge our fallen comrades with our own hands!"
The political commissar's voice boomed across the ranks, stirring the troops into fervor. "Has everyone had their fill this morning? Then let the attack commence!"
"Fire!" an officer commanded, waving a small flag. The Soviet 152mm howitzers roared to life, launching shells across the river.
The explosion of a shell in the center of a small German-occupied town marked the beginning of the conflict, destroying a two-story wooden building and leaving a massive crater. The shells relentlessly targeted the town.
In the German command post, a few hundred meters from the devastated site, a staff officer approached the major general with urgent news.
"General, the High Command has issued orders from the Führer: counterattack!"
The major general lowered his binoculars and turned to his aide. "Long live the Führer! All units, counterattack! Hit them hard!"
Before the Soviet forces could fully regroup from the initial bombardment, the German Frederick rockets unleashed a devastating volley, decimating the advancing Soviet infantry and transforming the battlefield into a cratered moonscape. This was swiftly followed by the precise, coordinated fire of German 150mm heavy artillery and 75mm field howitzers. With coordinates provided by covert observation posts, the German artillery rained down with deadly accuracy.
Despite the chaos, the Soviet troops, spurred on by their political officers and under the watchful eyes of their commanders, attempted a desperate crossing of the river. The water, shallow due to a delayed rainy season, offered no cover from the relentless German machine gun fire.
"Is this a suicide mission?" murmured a seasoned German machine gunner as he opened fire. The distinctive chattering of the German MG sounded over the water, a grim soundtrack to the unfolding tragedy. Soviet soldiers, struggling against the current and tripping over hidden rocks, fell in droves under the relentless barrage. The river quickly turned red with their blood, bodies floating in the chilling silence that followed.
On the high ground, the old sniper checked his pockets, finding them empty. Beside him lay several spent magazines. He couldn't recall how many shots he had fired, but he estimated that he must have killed at least several dozen enemy soldiers.
The Soviet offensive faltered, and several political officers shouted in vain, unable to believe the ferocity of the German resistance. They still hoped, against all odds, that their forces could turn the tide.
"Bring up the KV-1 tanks and the T-26s! Let these Germans witness the might of our armored forces!" a Soviet commander ordered, his eyes fixed on the blood-red river, his voice a mix of fury and desperation.